


Folie en Famille

by Sophie3



Category: Hannibal (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bad gun safety, Beverly Katz is the Best, Dean is a Good Brother, Dean to the Rescue, Gore, Hallucinations, Hannibal and children, Hannibal is a Bad Therapist, Hannibal is a Good Therapist, Hannibal is a manipulative bastard, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, M/M, Monsters are Real, No One Suspects Hannibal, No Smut, Secrets, Self-Harm, Someone Help Will Graham, Staunton Virginia, Timeline What Timeline, Trust Nothing, Unreliable Narrator, Virginia is for Lovers (actual tourism slogan), Wee!chesters, Will isn't the only one to see things, Wolf Trap is not as rural as they want you to believe, Young Winchesters, heads will roll, limited pov, sort of, strays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2018-09-24 06:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 112,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9708875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie3/pseuds/Sophie3
Summary: Will has always had a weakness for strays.  When circumstances bring the two young Winchester boys into his life, he doesn’t think he’s fit to take care of them.  Even if Hannibal thinks it will be good development for him…A story of how Will doesn’t believe in monsters but wants to protect Dean and Sam from them anyway.  And how Hannibal tries to build himself a family.  With cannibalism.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Timelines? What timelines? I’ve butchered the SPN timeline to make Weechesters! fit. I offer no excuse other than because I wanted to.
> 
> IMPORTANT: This takes place sometime in the middle of Season 1 of Hannibal. 
> 
> This fic is complete! But it's about 110k words and I'm still editing. Chapters should come out every one to two weeks.

Three bodies.  Three heads.  Three bullets.

And yet, something here was not what it seemed.

There had been four cases like this, exact same MO, moving slowly but steadily from Arkansas to Missouri to Nebraska till finally Tennessee, like some kind of bizarre bloody road trip.  It was enough to have Jack called in, which was enough for him to have Will on the first plane out to Sparta, Tennessee.  The trip had been long, with two planes and another four hours by car.  Sparta was not a place easy to reach as it sprawled through the Tennessee countryside with little clear denotation of where it ended and another county began.  Just trees, low mountains and the occasional river. 

It was the kind of place Will could see himself retiring to.  Even this ramshackle of a house, with its collapsed front porch, moldy walls and “antique” furniture, still had an acre and a half of land that back onto a healthy looking river.  He had been reassured that such a combination was not unusual.  Land was cheap here by comparison to the barely preserved green space of Wolf Trap.  The privacy of Will’s house was mostly an illusion as the sprawl of northern Virginia gobbled up what little rural land was left, but out here a man could stand in his front yard and scream at the top of his lungs and no one would hear.

These three men had not screamed. 

Will stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room and wondered why.

Jack had been good enough to clear the room before leading Will in through the back door.  The house was old with small rooms and tight entrances and exits.  But with the warm bodies all removed and nothing but Will, and the three cold bodies with their three detached heads, there was space enough to think.

There was plenty to take in.  Will tilted his head to the side and took in the house first, looking past the blood and bodies.  Poor Price and Zeller could spend a week in this house and still be collecting samples.  The three men had been living in the house for a while, either squatting or renting, it was hard to tell.  The outdated furniture was scratched and dented, little of it matching.  Most likely inherited with the house.  The one light in the ceiling didn’t even have a bulb in it and the one large window was covered over with what looked like a thick blanket nailed into the wall the way a broke college student might think was clever.

Old magazines, empty cigarette packs and dirty laundry were scattered across every flat surface and piled up along the sides.  There was an old TV with a VHS player plugged in front of it and a stack of tapes knocked over beside it.  No sign of any computer or any other form of entertainment.  No suspicious spot where one might have been and then stolen.  Three obvious “clean” areas that must have been used frequently by their John Does, as if the men had spent every free moment within these four walls.  Hard to keep three men entertained with only a few old tapes and each other’s company. 

This was not a space for outsiders.  They had entertained no company here.  The house was at the end of a long dirt driveway with an acre of thick underbrush and ditches and sharp inclines between it and any neighbor.

So how had two killers entered through the kitchen and still caught them unaware?

Three adult men as the victims.  The one by the door was a little pudgier than strictly health, and the one on the couch had the gaunt look of drugs.  Hard to tell without the head’s attached.  Amazing how much one judged by the relationship of body to head.  But each was of average height at least.  And while the house was a mess of trash and rickety furniture, nothing had been used as a weapon.  Not even as cover. 

The closest one, the overweight one by the door, had died first.  Not a single mark on him except for the fact that his head had been detached and had rolled into the corner.  A quick clean cut, the blood was easy to read, as was the smear mark as one of the killers stepped farther into the room. 

The gaunt one never made it off of the couch.  He likely tried.  The coffee table was bumped into an awkward position, the blood splatter from the first victim disturbed.  But that was as far as he had made it before collapsing backwards, neatly draped over the couch like a tableau of a fainting lady.  No clear sign as to why.  His head had been removed last, making the most mess as it had been sawed off there on the couch.  It had rolled under the coffee table, coming to rest lying sideways on one cheek.

The third body provided the most clues however, and Will focused in on him.  He’d been farthest from the kitchen, the one most likely to try to run, to try to escape through the doorway behind him and into the hall.  Instead, he had stepped forward.  The poor coffee table once more being knocked out of place, making a furrow in the junk piles around it.  The man had taken two small caliber rounds to the shoulder and chest for his trouble, managed another two steps towards the door before suddenly losing his head. If Will was willing to step through the room he could find it back behind the armchair.  It had gone over, not under, detaching from its body with enough force that it flew a good six feet in the air before plopping down on the other side. 

The blood splatter made the worn paisley fabric of the arm chair look bright and modern again.  Apparently blood red went with cigarette-stain yellow.  Who knew.

Will stayed in the doorway and took it all in, the house, the victims and most importantly the killers.

There were two of them.  One stayed in the doorway just where Will was standing.  The other had moved about the room with the kind of ease and deliberation that was both quick and unhurried.  Experienced.  They had come through the kitchen, just as Will had.  Just as the police had.  Just as the three men had every time when they had lived here.  The killers had known how to get in, and more importantly, were able to do so with little reaction from their victims.

Difficult, but still possible.  Will could picture how the first killer would have moved swiftly through the kitchen and into the living room, long, sharp knife already out and swinging for the first victim before there was time to react.  The trail of blood and disturbed trash left a clear path that the man had taken, moving from one body to the next.  That part was easy to picture.  There was a grace and simplicity to it that was so _professional_ it was almost hard not to see.  That wasn’t what bothered Will.

There were three things that had Will standing frozen, waiting for his mind, his gift, to come up with something that explained what was in front him so that they could stop it from happening again.

The first was the heads.

Not because of the gore involved.  Will was familiar enough with that.  Some days it felt like he had seen more body parts detached than he did anything else.  Limbs and organs and, yes, even the occasional head.  Granted, heads were one of the worse.  Harder to ignore.  Harder to disregard by focusing on the clinical aspects.  People survive losing a limb or even an organ. They never survive losing a head.  And a primal part in the back of everyone’s brain still trembles at the sight no matter how many other horrors a person is subjected to.  So yes, beheadings were always gruesome, but that wasn’t what caught and held Will’s attention. 

In fact, it was the lack of gore.  For a beheading, these had been relatively neat.  A clean, efficient cut had been used, made in one powerful stroke which had limited the amount of spray.  Two had been beheaded while still on their feet.  Alive and moving, capable of running, capable of fighting back, capable of simply dodging.  And yet someone had taken their heads off with an ease that only came from practice.  Lots of practice. 

Any one of those things was reason enough for concern.  Certainly enough to get the FBI called in. 

It wasn’t what troubled Will Graham.

The first part of this bloody violent puzzle that just did not fit was the _placement_ of the severed heads.

Two victims had been standing and had fallen when they had lost their heads.  The third was draped over the couch but there was just enough contrasting awkwardness and naturalness to the limbs that it would have been difficult to fake.  No, the bodies had been left where they lay.  _And so had the heads_. 

What kind of serial killer went to the trouble of removing a victim’s head and merely left it where it fell?

There was no art here.  No attempt at communication.  Seemingly even no ritual.  Just a task that needed to be done and was accomplished with the kind of efficiency and control that spoke of years of practice and remarkable confidence. 

It was almost enough to see this killer.  The heads were still a mystery, a blind spot that he would have to probe and discover the answer to, but the method, the skill was enough to give him some idea of this killer.  Middle aged man, skilled with his hands, most likely retired military, comfortable with unarmed combat, unimpressed with but equipped with at least one gun, likely more, rough appearance, used to working alone.

Except he wasn’t alone this time.  He’d brought someone with him, their mystery second killer.  Who hadn’t stepped foot into the room.  Who had stayed in the door and fired only two rounds from a handgun, each finding their mark with a clear trajectory.  Who had scuffed the lino when flinching backwards at some point, maybe when the beheadings had started or maybe when the one victim to act had moved in a threatening manner towards the kitchen and not towards the first killer.  Someone else had stood here, someone who was scared but had still stayed.

Someone who was firing up at a grown man.  Significantly up.  He would have to wait for the others to confirm it, but Will had seen enough examples to trust his own judgment.  It _could_ have been a woman.  A short woman.  In flat combat boots.  That were a bit too big for someone that short.  Like the rest of the body was still trying to catch up after a growth spurt. 

And that was the second piece of this puzzle that left Will feeling off balance and suddenly very afraid.

Will opened his eyes slowly, pulling himself back.  He inhaled carefully and reached up to rub at his eyes.  “Jack?” he called softly, knowing the other man was not far away.  “We have a problem.”

There was still one more piece of this puzzle that didn’t fit, but that didn’t matter right now.  Will had a much more important priority.


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you certain?"

"Jack…"

"It's a simple question," Jack demanded.

"Yes, for the third time, yes." Will set his coffee down and pointed at their wall of pictures. The local police station had given them their biggest conference room, and Jack, Will, Beverly, Price and Zeller had all squeezed in for a review of what they had. Most of the wall was taken up with papers related to this case. A few choice items from the other three cases where tacked up as well. The rest was tucked away in file boxes full of details and possible related cases.

"Physical evidence suggests it," Zeller add with only a hint of sullenness to his voice. He clicked his pen rhythmically as he listed off each of his items. "Shoes prints leading in and out, and in the kitchen are men's size. Weight distribution is fairly clear in the mud outside. The feet fit the shoe, but the weight isn't what you would expect for shoe size to height ratio. So either it's a very short, skinny woman with ridiculously big feet…"

"Or a teenager in the middle of a growth spurt. An early one," Will interrupted. He was tired of going over this yet again.

"What age are we thinking?" Jack asked. Like it made a different. To the courts a seventeen year old might be very different than a fifteen year old, but neither were prepared for a beheading.

Price shrugged. "Trajectory suggests an angle that would fit just under five feet. Average white American male juvenile should be about 10 to 12 at that height."

"Our killer's son then?"

Will shook his head. "Son, nephew, stray, it doesn't matter. It's someone he has enough control over to take to a kill," Will muttered, frustrated that they couldn't see that. He paused. "Someone he trusts enough to give a gun to and guard his back. And not shoot him in the back."

"Someone he trusts," Jack summarized.

Will shrugged again. "For what that word's worth. Look, what matters is he took the boy with him this time."

"A big change," Beverly agreed. "Think he had the kid with him for the other three kills? Or is the kid a new addition?"

Will stared at the pictures, only half listening to Price and Zeller debate the probability of proving how long the two had been together based on the limited amount of trace evidence they had. Certainly, there was probably a way to show they had both consumed the same diet for X amount of weeks or had dust from the same road on their shoes. Useful information that would take days to find and confirm.

"Our 'fainting' victim," Will interrupted sharply. "What was the cause?" That kill had been different from the others, delayed until the end and negligently done. That difference made it useful. Their main killer was accustom to, and more than capable of, a high level of violence. Without a clear understanding of why he was beheading his victims, the only thing they had to go on was the brutality of the act. It wasn't like him to kill someone seemingly at rest.

Price flipped to a different section of his notes. "One small puncture wound, right pectoral. Went through the vic's t-shirt. No obvious trace elements but I took some swabs of the surface area and am running a blood test. We should hear back soon."

"Sedative?" Beverly asked sounding just as confused as Will was.

"Unlikely," he told her. Which didn't tell them what it was. But knowing how it was delivered might mean something. "Do you know what kind of syringe was used?"

"Not medical," Price immediately confirmed. He was far more willing to see where Will was going with this than the others. "Something larger than standard. It caused some tissue damage."

"Possible velocity?"

Jack scowled. "You think they used a dart gun?" he asked.

Will gestured to the wall. "Look at our main perp. He's violent. He's hands-on. Up close and personal. He's efficient and methodical but there's still rage there. Still the desire to kill that is personal and gratifying. If he had been close enough to inject something into our third vic, he would have been close enough to take the head right away like he did with the other two. It's our second suspect that stays back, literally as far as possible and still be in the room. He shoots our second vic in the right shoulder and high-right chest. No extra shots. He fired twice and got two solid hits. Position is almost exactly the same as the injection site. If a projectile was used, the kind of device needed for that would be limited in its hold capabilities, yes?"

Beverly shrugged. "Sure."

"One round?"

She nodded. "Most likely. Not necessarily, but most likely."

"Which would also explain why it was only used once," Will paced in front of their wall, eyes jumping from one picture to the next. "He fired it once, got a solid hit. Placed that vic out of commission. _Switched weapons_. Fired twice at the second vic and got two more solid hits." Will spun to face Jack. He knew he was right and needed Jack to see it in his face that he was right. "The boy's a better shot than I am. Possible better than Bev-"

"Hey!"

"-or even you, Jack. He's well taught, steady-"

_Even if he flinched. Even if he was eleven and saw someone's head sliced off their body and rolling across the floor…_

"-He's not new to this. He knew what was going to happen. He's been prepared for it. Trained for it. This relationship isn't new – it's just entering a new phase. He trusts the primary absolutely. Depends on him. Probably tailors his every move to mimic him or predict him. Watches his back. Fires when necessary. Follows orders. Shouldn't have flinched. Even though – Still shouldn't have. Tried to-"

"Will!" Jack barked. "I think we get the point."

There was silence in the room. Will was breathing heavily, his eyes slowly focusing back on Jack's severe features and not on the imagined face of man he didn't want to disappoint. Price was staring at his notes. Zeller was staring at Will. Beverly was pointedly looking away, her mouth tight in a way Will immediately recognized as stressed.

Jack stepped forward, subtly shifting Will away from the center of the room and pulling back together the focus of the group. "What you're saying is we have two equally dangerous killers who will kill again."

Will's stomach dropped. "Jack-"

"Your words, Will, not mine. Now let's get to work."

* * *

"Good afternoon, Will. I am glad you called."

Will closed his eyes and leaned back against the hotel hallway wall. He wanted to ask how Hannibal did that – sound so calm and steady that even Will's mind quieted and the headache that had plagued him all day faded into the back ground. He wanted to ask Hannibal a lot of different things, from where he bought his ties to who taught him to love cooking. And even though their relationship was quickly becoming one of the closest Will had ever had and grew only deeper every day, there were still so many times that the words seemed to be caught between Will's mind and the real world.

"Really?" he couldn't help but ask. He wasn't the type to call socially and neither seemed Hannibal.

"I miss our afternoon talks," Hannibal explained. There was something about the way he stressed the possessive pronoun that made it seem so much more than a mere grammatical device.

Will smiled. He sank down till he was sitting, knees drawn up to his chest and arms resting casually on top. For a moment they were both silent till Will realized this was the part where he was supposed to say something – explain why he called, comment on the weather – but nothing came to him.

Instead Hannibal asked "How is the case going?"

Will breathed in deeply the way Hannibal always recommended, then he answered. "I can't talk about it on this line. Unsecure. "

"My apologies, of course." Hannibal replied immediately. There was such a genuineness to him that it almost made Will feel like he wasn't the socially awkward one always making things difficult.

Will scrambled to make a joke out of it. Humor smoothed over many a social blunder. "You never know when Ms. Freddie Louds might be listening."

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a long moment. "I sincerely regret that that is the case. Please know, William, that if I could prevent her crass invasion of your privacy without making the situation worse and being counterproductive to your own wellbeing, I would certainly do so."

Christ. Hannibal needed to not say things like that. As the thin venire of professionalism that defined the early stages of their acquaintance faded and disappeared, this new side of Hannibal reared his head more and more. At first Will had only seen it in the way Hannibal involved himself in Abigail's situation. To have that same focus directed at him was…new. And not at all as bad as he might have thought once before.

"Nothing to be done about it," Will muttered back. "I'll just have to grit my teeth and bear with it. Something more interesting is sure to turn up."

"I doubt that," was the reply. Will winced before Hannibal continued. "As I have told you before, there are few things more fascinating than your brain, and unfortunately something that unique is bound to draw the attention of all manner of predators, even bottom feeders like Ms. Louds."

"Thanks, I think. I'm fairly certain half of what you just said could be taken as an insult."

"I assure you, none of it was meant in that manner."

"Yes," Will agreed, closing his eyes and breathing in once more. "I know that."

"Good."

They were both quiet long enough for Will to guess what each of his neighbors were doing based on sound alone. Beverly was still watching television in the room they shared, while Price and Zeller had started a card game right after dinner and were still enthusiastically battling it out. Jack's room was silent. The businessman down the hall had the TV, radio and shower on at the same time while the parents on the other end were struggling to get their two small children into one bed.

It was good background noise. People winding down at the end of the day. Relaxing. Normal. Will might prefer his privacy and isolation but there was something to be said for sitting on the outskirts of normal life and just observing.

"Will," Hannibal's voice was soft as if he too did not wish to disturb the calm.

"Yes?"

"I do not actually care about the case."

Will opened his eyes and stared up at the hotel's popcorn ceiling. "Oh. I didn't mean to-"

"You misunderstand me," Hannibal replied. "I am always here to listen if you wish to discuss your work." There was a pause that with anyone else Will might have called hesitation. But this was Hannibal. Everything he did was deliberate. "I find our conversations to be uniquely invigorating and I thank you for that."

Always so polite. "You probably shouldn't."

"Nevertheless," Hannibal continued. "So please do not misunderstand me when I say I am not interested in your cases. I am simply more interested in you."

Will felt the flush run from his ears down to his neck. He was suddenly very grateful they were having this conversation over the phone and not in intimacy of Hannibal's office. Not that it probably made much of a difference. The same way Will could see into the minds of killers, Hannibal seemed to be able to see into his mind. It was hard to keep secrets from him and it was getting harder and harder to want to.

"Oh."

Hannibal chuckled. "Yes. Now, is there anything you can tell me about you?"

Will thunked his head against the wall rhythmically until Hannibal told him to stop. "I'm thinking," he explained. "I'm…worried, I guess. This case isn't going to end well for anyone. I know that. I can't stop that," and god, did that hurt just as much this time as it had every other time. "But there're also pieces that just don't fit, about our suspect and our vics." Will paused. "I believe it might be that last aspect that seems the most incongruent."

"Understanding who a killer targets may help you to better understand who the killer is."

"Basic theory, yes."

"And yet these victims do not fit with your expectations. There is something unnatural about them as well that bothers you."

"Oh," he whispered. "That's what the third thing was." Funny how sometimes it took talking to Hannibal for everything to click into place. Somehow he always led Will one step further. It was almost as if they were a team. A good team. Will had a lot of experience being on teams but little experience truly being a part of one.

"What third thing?" Hannibal asked. If there was a hint of excitement in his voice, Will couldn't blame him. He felt the same way too.

"There were three things at the crime scene that bothered me. Two of them had to do with the killer," Will waved his hand as if to dismiss them. "I'm still working on those, but it doesn't matter right now and I can't talk about it," he explained quickly. "But the third thing! The third thing was the victims and the house. The place was a trash heap, Hannibal. It made a college dorm look tidy by comparison. It had all the signs of possible squatters, but they weren't. They were renting. Paying cash by the month, but still legitimate. _But there was no food!_ "

There was silence on the line. "Food," Hannibal repeated as he thought it over.

"Yes!" Will pushed to his feet and started pacing the narrow hallway. "No food! No food wrappers! No dirty dishes! Not even a soda can! How do three men who clearly don't care about cleanliness live in a house for a month and not generate a mountain of food related trash! They spent all of their time in that house, in that one room. The nearest store of any kind was a gas station seven miles down the road, and even then, did they never bring home anything? _Why didn't they eat_?"

"They must have eaten something."

Will breathed in deep over and over again. "Yes, of course," he agreed. The logic made his mind whirl. There had to be an explanation.

"The question is what?"

"No," Will disagreed. "The question is how did our killer know about it. And why did he care."


	3. Chapter 3

"Alright! This is absolutely everything and anything," Beverly announced. "I sure hope you know what the hell you're looking for because there is a whole lot of crap here and not much else." She clicked a few buttons and the projector screen behind her was suddenly filled with forms and lists and database information. She'd already had three boxes of files delivered, half of them faxed overnight from headquarters and helpfully stapled and organized by the local clerk. "Everything you never wanted to know about Peter, Paul and Mary."

Will scowled without looking up from the file he was flipping rapidly through. "That is not their names."

She huffed. "Alright. Patrick, Paul and Martin. Close enough. Or Marty, as he liked to be called. Really. Who thinks Marty is an improvement? And I'm not entirely convinced Paul is Paul. There's definitely something fishy about his records. He's either a very well preserved man despite having clearly eating a few too many sweets or we're looking at a case of stolen identity. I'd suggest even familial. Possibly Paul junior, but usually when it works that way there's something there worth taking. As far as I can see, Paul senior was just as pathetic as Paul junior. Maybe more so." Beverly wrinkled her nose. She hated incompetency, even in criminals. "Patrick's more of a black hole. Not much on him. Not even a drunk and disorderly as far as I can tell. I'm still working on him," she reassured Will.

Will was only half listening. Beverly was good at what she did. If there was information to be found on their vics, she'd dig it up. So far, nothing had explained the odd living arrangements. He had hoped for some kind of public presentation, even if only online, that would explain how their killer became aware of it. It wasn't hard to figure out where a person ate a meal, but it was almost impossible to prove they never did.

"Travel?" he asked.

Beverly grinned and spun around in her chair. "Here's our timeline, best I could put together with electronic records. We'll have to send out some bodies to check the old fashion way. But it looks like they've been in Sparta a good two months. Best part? Guess where they were before Sparta," she paused only briefly, just enough to make sure she had his attention, "Fremont, Nebraska."

Will's head snapped up. "Our first crime scene."

The grin she gave him was more than a little feral. "First suspected connected crime scene. Yep."

"There were five bodies at that one."

"And two in Missouri and one in Arkansas. You think he's working his way back up in number?"

"No. Yes. Maybe," Will shook his head. "I need the Nebraska scene to know."

Beverly shrugged. "No helping it. Not much left after a fire like that. We were lucky to get a good body count."

Will paused. "Pull up the pictures."

Beverly was already clicking away when she gave him a look. "Thought you couldn't work from pictures," she asked.

"I can't," Will reassured her. But he had questions. "Do we have anything that shows what the site looked like before the fire?"

Beverly pulled up a new window and start working right away. "Doubtful. It was an old factory. Used to produce nails or something back in the '50s. Wood construction. Hasn't been used in years."

"But it was big. Bigger than the house here."

Beverly shrugged again as if they were discussing the weather but she didn't give up searching for something to give Will. "Sure. Good size place. Could probably fit a few houses in it."

"Fire Marshal's report say anything about furniture?"

Beverly pointed. "File's in the last stack on the right, fourth one down, in the back. Don't remember what it says."

Will tugged the file loose and scanned through it. "Possible accelerants, most likely flammable fabric. Multiple."

Her typing stopped and she looked at him over her computer screen. "Alright. What's that genius brain of yours thinking?"

Will blushed a little but managed to shake off the backhanded compliment. "Couches. Old ones. If you have a group of people living or squatting together, you have to have something to sit on. Old mattress, couches, that sort of thing."

"You can find those anywhere," Beverly replied, trying to catch up with him. "But not many in an industrial neighborhood like that. They'd have had to bring them in somehow, put some effort into it."

"Yes. Exactly. And based on this report, they had several. Far more than what only five people would need."

Beverly stared at him. "You think there were more people in that building. You think Peter, Paul and Mary were in that building."

"Yes."

"Shit."

"Yes."

"You think – but if – why the hell wouldn't they have gone to the police?"

Will still had pictures from the house in Sparta sitting on top of the table. He'd taken to carrying them around with him, waiting for inspiration to hit. He pushed them around again, hoping for a fresh angle to look at them. "There's something off about our vics. Something they're hiding. Our suspect knows what it is. And I'd be willing to bet it's not just the ones here in Sparta. It's all of them."

Beverly thought about that for a moment. Her fingers twitch on the key board as if she wanted to have something to search for, a name to run down. Which led to the most important question. "Are there more of them?" she asked quietly.

Will sighed. He hated having to spell out this part. "Most likely. Or at least our suspect believes there are. He's killed eleven people in a little over a month. He's moving fast, not just in body count but in crime scenes and distance in between. He's not going to just stop. There's always going to be one more to find, somewhere out there. If there's not – if he doesn't have that energy pushing forward…" And he has a teenager with him. "This ends, it ends in blood. Theirs and his." And his boy.

It was the part Will didn't want to talk about. The part Beverly at least was decent enough not to mention over and over again the way certain other people were. It wasn't like Will was going to forget.

"Okay," Beverly agreed. "How do we predict where he'll be next? They never identified the bodies in Arkansas. Or Nebraska. We only have a match on Gilly Turner in Missouri, and even that's an old missing person's file. Not much to go on. Nothing that connects her to our three."

"We don't have to prove who they knew, just how many people there were with in Arkansas. We need a body count from before our killer caught up to them."

Beverly started clicking through National Parks data. "Going to be hard to pinpoint that. Fremont's not a small town, it's going to be hard to find anything new. People pass through there all the time."

"They won't use buses or trains," Will instructed, moving to stand by her shoulder. "Too public. In fact, they probably try to avoid being seen together as a group. Whatever their secret is, they're careful with it. This isn't a counterculture that likes to make sure other people know they're special. This is more ingrained. They didn't pick this house or that factory for the ambience. Or the convenience. They wanted the privacy." He paused, head tilted to the side as he waited for that one more piece to slip into place. "They're hiding like guilty men. It probably actually makes it easier for our killer to find them. He looks for where he'd hide."

"So how do we find them before he does?"

"We treat them as suspects. How do we run down a suspect?"

* * *

"This is thin."

"I know."

"Real thin, Will."

Will shrugged. "It's better than nothing," he told Jack with only a hint of sharpness to his tone. Only as much attitude as he knew he could get away with. After all, he and Beverly had brought something to the table. It was better than anything else they had.

"Don't get me wrong," Jack continued in that tone of voice that meant exactly that Will wasn't. "It's impressive you managed to connect the car parked around the corner from the factory to one found near our crime scene in Wapanocca. Good detective work. I still don't see why you think the car next to it will lead us to our next crime scene. Do you know how many cars are probably parked on that street right now?"

"I'd guess about an average of three per block based on the footage we have and Google Earth," Will promptly replied. "That's not the point, however. The point is, Jack, that this car arrived the same day as the one we know our other vics used, too early to be the killer, and it left suddenly the morning after the crime. Possibly between when the killer struck and before the crime scene was found. Rather early in the morning for anyone else to be leaving that area." He took a deep breath and lifted his chin. "Unless you have a better suggestion?"

Jack gave him a dark look. It was the same one he gave Will every time he said something that Jack didn't like. Will was getting used to it. Hannibal would probably say it was good for him.

"Alright, so do we have anything on the car?" Jack said as if playing along with a purely academic exercise.

Will squared his shoulders. "We got a hit in Blacksburg, Virginia. Traffic copy pulled a car with four people over, looking for drunk drivers coming from the college."

"And you think these people were involved?"

He shrugged.

"But you think our killer will be following them?"

Will met his eyes. "Yes." It was a chance. Everything about the way he worked was.

"Then what the hell are we still doing here?"


	4. Chapter 4

Will was technically only allowed into the field on a special probationary basis as a consultant. They were kind enough to issue him a gun. He sometimes still had mixed feelings about that, but Hannibal assured him that the ambivalence he felt was perfectly normal. Healthy. Still. It was probably for the best that Will wait in the car.

But having Jack _tell_ him to wait in the car like a child was still grating.

Will had been a police officer. A fact that so many of his current associates seemed to forget. While he may have spent the last few years sitting behind a teacher's desk, those skills had never left him. He knew basic procedure. He knew how to clear a room. He could have helped.

Instead Jack was leading a mixed group of local police and local FBI into what remained of the old abandoned Western State Hospital of Staunton, Virginia. They grouped together quickly at the base of the main stairs. Flak jackets and rifles were out in force while the rest made do with their sidearm, or in Jack's case a shotgun. Within moments, Jack had them split into three teams, with the largest following him in through the front.

They had good information. Between Beverly's work, the efforts of several very cooperative local offices up and down I-81 and their fair share of dumb luck, they had a city and a prime location.

After all, what kind of anti-social, violent killer could resist a place like this?

Will waited long enough for the team to enter the front door before letting himself out of the car. He stood at the end of the hedge trimmed gravel path that led up to the main stairs to the building. In the early morning light, it was actually quite beautiful. A classic example of architecture in early Virginian history. The kind of thing associated with Thomas Jefferson and Revolutionary War reenactments. White columns and red brick, with the Shenandoah Mountains rising in the distant fog. It was peaceful. And maybe at some point that had been the goal when this building had been meant for improving fractured minds. But Will was well aware that a calm outside could hide so many monsters inside.

The building had only been empty for a decade or so, but it looked like a ghost of the past. The grounds had been left to run wild. The paint was peeling like strips of confetti. The Sheriff had thankfully had the keys to the seven foot fence that ran the perimeter, though Will was certain there was at least one much less legal entry point somewhere in that length of high fencing. The sleepy town of Staunton seemed content to lock the doors and let the past be the past. For over a hundred years this one building had serviced and housed both the not-so-good and the not-so-sane of western Virginia. It would have been during a time period when medical psychology was not at its best.

He'd been informed on the drive over that it had been turned into a corrections facility in the seventies, as if that was an improvement. Will was hard pressed to comment that he saw little difference. But even that had been shut down at the turn of the century. And ever since then it had served as the neighborhood boogie man. The stuff of scary stories and drunken dares for the nearby college population. It likely wasn't unusual for someone to sneak in under the cover of night, but it was still removed enough that four people could hole up inside unnoticed for days if they didn't mind a bit of rot and plenty of ghosts.

Its seclusion and ghastly reputation was perfect for a group of people who didn't want to be found. That same seclusion and ghastly reputation also made it a prime spot for their killer to do his work. While there was nothing to suggest he would appreciate the drama of such a location, everything did point to him appreciating the efficiency and simplicity of this spot. It was the only place in this small town that he could reliable work without the chance of being interrupted.

Will was confident this was their best chance to either get to their victims before their killer did, or even better in Jack's mind, catch their killer in the act. Hopefully before he finished what he had started.

The morning light was growing stronger as the fog from the nearby mountains started to burn off. Will stood in the first rays of the day and stared at the building for a moment more before slowly closing his eyes. Jack was doing everything by the book. It was the best way to clear such a large, unpredictable complex like this one. So many rooms, so many blind corners, so many possible secrets and pitfalls. But Will was more than just his training as a cop.

Will took a deep breath and was the killer.

Buildings like this were his daily fodder. He knew them, knew them all, even if they changed from state to state and time period from time period. They were all the same. Abandoned, broken, dark possibilities. Not just for him, but for his prey. They liked these kinds of buildings, gravitated towards them, so he would too.

But he wouldn't use the front door. Front doors weren't for people like him. He'd spent so much time hovering on the outskirts of civilization, picking off his prey, it was actually easier for him to find his own way in through the backdoor than it would be to come through the front, even if someone had helpfully left it wide open for him.

So somewhere there was a bit of wire fencing pulled up or cut. Big enough for him to fit through (also easy enough for a young boy to follow behind). Will could see it. Somewhere secluded enough no civilian would see him at work. But it would need to be accessible by car. It was a long walk up from the nearest road, and too exposed and well lit to go unnoticed. He travels light, but he'd still need his tools. You can't just walk up to the front door with a machete on his back. He'd need cover to get in unnoticed by the locals or his prey. He'd need something farther away from the main road, and all the shops and cars and life that ran alongside it.

Will turned his head to the left. Trees. What looked like a small pond. The interstate to his back. If anyone saw anything from that direction, they would be traveling too fast to care. Will started walking. The grass was browned and lumpy with crabgrass. The incline sharp enough in spots to make Will stumble along like a drunk. He tried to follow it down naturally. The killer would have been walking up, a different perspective, but Will could see where the flow of the land would have guided any experienced outdoorsman to take a certain path.

He followed it back to the car.

It was a black vintage muscle car, dusty from the dirt road. He'd parked it under a grouping of trees, the way a couple of teenagers looking for some privacy might. Hidden, but not suspiciously so, in case anyone came by. Likely plenty of other tire tracks to add a little confusion if anyone did start asking questions. Even with the bite of winter in the air, the trees still held on to their leaves, providing a bit of coverage. Snow hadn't found this part of the Shenandoah yet and so the ground was cold and hard and unlikely to leave much of a trace. The spot was almost serene.

A weapon discharged in the distance. Then a rapid response fire. It echoed through the quiet valley with a surreal detachment, as if more of a memory than reality. Will was still staring at the lonely car when it happened.

A small head popped up in the back seat, a halo of scraggly hair faintly outlined by the rising sun.

He was small enough Will almost didn't see him. Might have mistaken him for something else. A trick of light. Another hallucination. But Will was looking for a preteen boy, hoping against all logic that this time he would have been left behind to watch the car and not take part in the beheading planned for tonight.

Instead he found a boy of about six.

There were two of them.

Will scrambled across the last bit of grass that separated him from the car. There was another discharge and his hand automatically checked his own pistol. Still where it should be, but no one knew where he was. The incline of the hill would make it difficult to see them under the trees. If Jack was trying to flush out their killer, there was a good chance he'd return the way he had come. After all, he had left something here. Will had about five minutes to get the boy and run.

Will slipped on the wet grass, shot a hand out and caught himself on the hood of the car. He pushed off and slid around to the back. The windows were clear glass, no tinting to hide behind. There was a sweater laying abandoned in the front seat and open bag of M&M's. The back seat was all one bench. There was a crumpled McDonald's bag and a collection of old children's National Geographics and Batman comics. One of the glossier ones was slowly sliding off of the others until it fell into the foot well. The bundle of fabric nestled there didn't even twitch. Will would have been impressed by the hide-and-seek skills if he wasn't busy playing his own version with an armed killer.

He tried the door. It was locked. They all were. Will's breathing was still elevated from his trip down the hill but he kept his voice as calm and soothing as Hannibal's. "You need to open the door." There wasn't time for sugarcoating things, but he might still be able to reason with the child. "I'm a police officer," he told him. He took the time to yank out his badge and clacked it against the glass. Children liked badges. "It's going to be okay." God, he hoped so. He couldn't do this again if it wasn't. "I need you to open the door now."

The blanket was still. In the dim light Will couldn't even see the rise and fall of a little chest. He knew the child had to be breathing since he just saw the boy, but part of him started to panic. What if something had happened? What if Will had made a mistake? Maybe he hadn't seen what he thought he had. Maybe he'd lost time again between seeing that curly head and getting to the bottom of the hill. Maybe he was too late. Again.

He smacked his badge against the window one more time. The sharp crack seemed to mimic the occasional pop they were hearing from up the hill. Still the form did not move. Will's shirt was drenched in sweat. There wasn't time. He didn't want to scare the boy. God only knew what things had been like up to this point. There was no reason for him to trust Will, even if he did believe he was a cop. If he had been taught not to open the door, then it was very likely he'd stay inside that car even if it burned to slag. A man like their killer was not one that would be disobeyed.

Will grit his teeth and drew his sidearm. He was a decent shot, even if he rarely practiced. But one handgun wasn't going to do much against what he suspected was on its way down that hill coming straight for him. The last thing Will wanted to do was stand between that cold efficiency and something he saw as his.

So Will slammed the butt of his gun into the glass as hard as he could. The crash sounded like every piece of glass on the car had shattered, not just the small back window. The pieces fell into the back seat with the tinkle of wind chimes and shimmered like ice. He yanked the lock up and threw open the door. His gun went back into its holster, and he took ahold of the bundle of blankets. His plan had been to lift the whole thing and make a run for it. The blanket would help protect the child and keep him hidden if they couldn't get away fast enough.

He hadn't counted on the lifeless bundle to transform into a wiggling mess. It was like trying to get one of his dogs in the bath. There were limbs everywhere, twisting and squirming and trying to pull free.

"Let go!" a high voice demanded not sounding at all afraid. The six year old was better at channeling anger instead of fear than Will was.

"We have to go," he hissed. "Something very bad is coming for us and I need to get you somewhere safe." He knew reason had flown out the window about the same time he'd started down the hill without backup, but he had to try. His dogs reacted well when he talked them through the worst moments of disorientation. Keeping himself calm was the first step to keeping a wild animal calm. He hoped to have a little less fight on his hands. Enough to let him stumble along the dirt road and hopefully find help.

He certainly hadn't expected the boy to go limp. The change was so sudden it almost sent both of them tumbling backwards when Will's efforts to counterbalance where not met with equal force.

"What kind of bad thing?" the voice asked, and even muffled by part of the blanket, the boy sounded far too loud in the hush of the crime scene.

Will shifted his burden to something easier to carry and started along the dirt road that led away from the car. He'd never make it back up the hill with his load. Not fast enough to avoid being caught. But if he could buy them some time, Jack might find them first. He used one hand to pat down the blanket until a mop of dirty blond hair was visible. The lighting was still poor, but he could see big eyes and a chin that was a bit ahead of the rest of the face. The boy looked healthy. His face had the thinness of a growing child, not one used to doing without. He was clean if a bit scruffy looking.

"It's a monster," Will answered honestly.

The boy scowled at him. "Monster's aren't real."

God, Will wished. "This one is. I've seen him. But we're going to hide where he can't find us."

"We should have stayed in the Impala then. No place is safer."

"Not this time," Will told him, picking up his pace. If the boy's keeper found them, Will was going to get shot. He might lose his head as well. Hopefully, he would be beyond the point of caring before that happened, but either way it was not something he wanted this boy to see. One of them had already helped their killer with at least three victims. If this one still didn't believe in monsters, Will might be able to keep him that way.

"What's your name?" he asked between puffed breaths. A small boy didn't weigh much, but it was still enough to make charging across a bumpy field challenging.

"I'm Sam," the boy replied with the ease of someone used to introducing themselves. Yet another life skill he was surpassing Will at.

"I'm Will," he answered. Talking might not be the smartest idea, but it made it easier to focus on what was real and in front of him. "I'm a teacher."

"I thought you were a cop."

Smart little booger. "I'm a teacher who teaches cops."

"That's not the same as being a cop."

"I have a badge," Will countered.

"So? My dad does too."

Will's mind raced. Police credentials. He doubted they were real. It wouldn't fit his profile. But fake ones – fake ones would. Like the way a hunter wears camouflage. Their killer had learned how to mask himself, to pass where others couldn't go, to avoid questions. Local IDs would be too risky in small towns like this. Too easy for someone to know better. And he traveled too much to make new ones. Something federal then. Christ. He was posing as the FBI. Will wanted to laugh. Here he was pretending to be a local cop while the killer pretended to be an agent.

Another gunshot. This one cracked loudly in the open air. They were no longer inside the asylum. Which meant their suspect was running down the hill. Sam flinched in his arms and went from riding along passively to clinging like a limpet. He was going to have to find a place to stop. He wouldn't be able to out run what was coming after him. And if Sam saw someone he trusted he wouldn't hesitate to leave Will's side. He couldn't run, hold on to Sam and defend them at the same time.

The land leveled out on the left, a large oak tree dominated the space around it. It was the best they were going to do. With a little luck, the black car might drive straight by them and not see a thing. If they weren't lucky the large roots would give Will somewhere to keep Sam boxed in and provide cover for both of them.

He did not want to shoot another child's father.

It might not come to that however. It was possible… had to be possible. McDonalds and comic books and M&M's and no place is safer than the Impala – their killer wasn't likely to hurt the boy. It was probably his own son. He wasn't the type to do what Hobbs had. Nothing in his profile suggested he was. He'd kill Will. Shoot him, behead him, possibly even worse. But Sam would see tomorrow's morning and Will wouldn't have the blood of a child's father on his hands. Not again.

He didn't have time to think about it any further than that. He stumbled off the dirt road and dropped to his knees as soon as they were out of sight.

Sam looked up at him, for the first time looking scared and uncertain. "Mr. Will?"

Will tucked the blanket up around the boy's ears to keep him warm. "It's okay. Keep your head down. Jack will find us."

Sam seemed to think that over. Will was just happy he was well behaved. "I want Dean."

Will flinched and jerked his head up to look in the direction of the hospital. Dean wasn't Dad. Someone like their killer, he wouldn't allow the disrespect and familiarity of being called Dean. Not when Will, who was a stranger, was still a Mr. Will. No, Dean was a friend, a close confident, a constant companion and protector. Just like a good older brother should be.

Dean was likely shooting a gun and getting shot at while his father tried to hunt down the last four people he had decided needed to lose their heads.

"I'll watch for him," Will told Sam.

Sam smiled brightly. "Good. Dean will come and find us."

Will started to shake. There was a roaring in his ears. A bellowing. It matched the feeling of something breathing heavy across the back of his neck. Something large and warm and nonhuman that crowded up against him.

If Dean found them first there was a good chance Will would turn his own gun on himself. He couldn't handle that. He couldn't choose between saving one child and shooting another.

The stag didn't seem to like that very much.

For a moment, it seemed to loom over him. The line between wakefulness and dream blurring. A figment of his imagination. A desperate attempt of his overloaded thought process to deal with the unthinkable. The longer Will was out in the field, the more cases Jack drug him to, the more he seemed to feel it's presence in his every waking moment. Like something outside of himself was watching him. Pushing him.

Will didn't give a damn what the stag thought. He wasn't shooting a child. He knew his own mind enough to know that wasn't happening, he didn't care what monster or ghost or totemic deity his hindbrain came up with thought about it, he wasn't shooting a child. He wasn't. He wasn't. He'd splatter his own precious brain that everyone was so interested in all over this dew covered field before he did that. He would. He knew it. He knew it with absolute clarity, not a question in his mind["1] , not a hint of doubt or confusion or –

A small hand latched on to him. "What's that?" Sam asked. Terrified.

Will's eyes darted down, took in the sharp panting, the wide and glassy eyes, and the pale skin of the child beneath him. It accorded to Will, just then, that must be what he looked like after a crime scene. No wonder everyone seemed so uncomfortable afterwards. But Sam was staring at something behind Will, and he didn't have time to think about it. He spun on one heel, arms coming up, gun parallel to the ground, elbows locked, shoulders ready to absorb the recoil.

There was nothing there.

"Sam, what?" he whispered as his eyes still searched the land around them and the trees further back, looking for a sign of what had spooked the boy. If Dean or their father had snuck up around behind them then any chance Will might have had was gone.

Sam was silent but kept one hand wrapped around Will's pant leg. Will could feel him shaking and hoped it was just the cold.

"Sam?" he asked again, keeping his voice low and level. He wasn't used to needing to be the reassuring one, but he had plenty of examples to draw from. Alana would be the best choice. She'd probably be excellent with a child like Sam. She already seemed to know how to talk to Abigail. But it was Hannibal he thought of. Hannibal's smooth voice, the way it was both soothing and solid. Uncompromising while at the same time open and confiding.

Sam leaned into him further, scooting away from his protection behind the tree. Will automatically dropped one arm to curl around him. The early morning air was still frigid enough that the boy felt half frozen under Will's arm. He pulled him in tighter even though he knew it was a bad idea. He'd need both hands free and Sam ought to be tucked out of sight as much as possible. But the boy was shaking and Will couldn't push him away.

"What did you see?" he asked again.

"A monster," Sam replied. He had his face smushed into Will's jacket so it came out muffled and sounded nothing like the belligerent boy he'd pulled out of that car. "It was right behind you."

"It's alright," Will immediately hushed. Christ. Why did he tell him there were monsters? Normal people didn't tell children monsters were out to get them. What a messed up thing to tell a child.

"I saw it," Sam insisted, sounding a bit more like himself. "It was big and black and right behind you. Deers aren't supposed to be scary," he complained.

Will was the one shaking now. "A deer?"

Sam lifted his head and stared at Will with such determination. "Yeah. Did you see it too?"

No. No. No, he hadn't. He didn't. He knew the answer to that question was always no. He risked a glance down at the boy. Sam was still staring at him. Will could see it in his face that Sam knew he was about to lie. He was already starting to pull back from Will. And just like with his strays, just like with Abigail, Will didn't want to let go.

"Yes," he admitted. Because if he couldn't admit it to a six year old, who could he? "I've seen it. It's not real , though. And it won't hurt you. I promise. I won't let it."

"Looked real."

"I know. But it's not. You have to ignore it. It's going – "

"SAM!"

They both jerked. Sam started to try to stand up and turn around but Will shoved him back down. Hopefully the blanket would keep him tangled up enough to stay down. Will wrapped one corner around him tighter, then dropped his knee on the bottom edge to hold it in place. He pushed his shoulder into the tree, putting his whole body over Sam, and carefully poked his head around the trunk of the tree.

He couldn't hear the car and a machine like that had a distinct engine noise. Cars weren't Will's specialty, but he knew engines. The morning light was burning off the last of the fog but he still couldn't see anyone.

Sam squirmed beneath him and poked his head up beneath Will's armpit. "That's Dean!" he told him with excitement.

"Okay," Will agreed, keeping his voice quieter. "But you still have to stay down for now."

"SAM!"

"But – "

"Just a little longer," Will begged.

Sam stared at him before nodding slowly. "Okay. We'll stay together. In case the monster comes back."

"SAMMY!"

Will pushed Sam's head back under the blanket, despite his protests. If he could keep Sam's head covered, maybe this wouldn't end in tragedy. He peeked his own head back around the tree. He still couldn't hear anything, but slowly his eyes focused in on something shifting along the right side of the dirt road. He watched it carefully, his gun still tucked up against his chest and his body hidden as much as possible. There was a figure, jogging along the path. Something long and slender held cross body with two hands. Possibly a bat, but not likely.

There was shifting noise behind him and hot, humid breath against his neck. It pressed down on him and his shoulders hunched under the weight. The wind seemed to shift. There was no longer the background smell of old leaves and early morning air, but something Will couldn't quiet place. It was as familiar as home and Will didn't shift from his tense position.

"Mr. Will," Sam whispered so quietly he barely heard him.

"The monster deer?" Will asked in return. He could feel the boy nod. "Watch him for me, Sam. Keep your eyes on him and don't look away. Everything's going to be okay if you don't look away."

He could see more clearly now. It wasn't the father coming towards them. The height was wrong, the body too slender, the sawed off shotgun still too big for the hands. Big brother Dean, come to find Sammy just the way Sam said he would. The older boy was scared. Will was scared. And even Sam was scared as he kept a close eye on Will's hallucination.

The wind shifted. The trees rustled. And Dean saw something was behind the tree. The shotgun came up as smooth and easy as Will's pistol and they aimed at each other.

"FBI!" Will shouted, the sound a shock even to his own system and to everything else in the field. "Put down the gun!"

"Where's Sam?"

Sam shifted, his body straining for his brother's, but he did as Will asked. He didn't look away from the monster. He seemed unable to. And his breathing was nothing but short, frantic pants that had Will worried for whole other reasons. "Sam's fine," Will assured him.

The boy moved closer, arms shaking. "What have you done with him?"

"He's fine!" Will repeated. His voice was high and sharp, worry getting the better of him even as he tried to rein this god awful situation back in. "He's just a little boy, Dean. He's fine and no one's going to hurt him. No one here," Will amended.

"Give him back!"

Sam whimpered his brother's name.

Will felt light headed. "I can't, Dean." His hands were shaking. He knew better than to point a gun unless he was willing to use it. And he wasn't. He couldn't. And his training overruled any other logic his brain came up with. His arms dropped, the gun pointed harmless at the ground. He dropped his forehead onto the trunk in front of him and pushed against it as if the pressure and the pain could hold him together. "I can't do that, Dean. He might get hurt. He's just a boy. He shouldn't be here. What's happening, what you came here to do, Sam shouldn't be anywhere near that. You know so." It was so clear from every word Sam spoke to the fine tremors in Dean's arms. "You know this isn't right. That Sam deserves better. You're the one who protects him. And I'm telling you. I'm begging you. You have to understand and see. This, what you're doing, it's going to hurt Sam. It's going to end with something bad happening to him. You have to stop. For Sam's sake."

Will knew this could only end one way and started to stand up. He felt the stag shift behind him. There was a sudden sharp pain in his shoulders. Probably from holding one position for so long in the cold. But it felt like the jagged points of antlers pushing him back down, trying to pin him in place. Sam whimpered and Will put a gentling hand on his head. He was still staring at what was behind Will. Such a good boy.

He tucked his gun away and shifted his body enough to face Dean clearly. He wasn't suicidal enough to come out entirely from behind his shelter. "I'm not going to shoot you, Dean," he told him. He got his first good look at the other boy and it quieted the last part of his mind that wasn't sure about this. Price's estimate had been right. Dean couldn't be much more than ten or eleven, even though he tried to look so much older. Baggy pants and over-shirts could only hide so much. The short hair only made him look younger, thinner, more exposed. Probably not the look he was going for. He held the gun like it weighed nothing. He could shoot Will were he stood and not get a scratch on Sam. He was cold without his sweat shirt. He didn't know where his father was. Wasn't scared of the dozen police and FBI agents following him. Wasn't scared of the one FBI dork standing in front of him. Was terrified something might happen to Sam. Dean was just as young and scared and vulnerable as his brother and Will was responsible for them both.

"I'm not going to shoot you," Will repeated, louder this time. He needed Dean and Sam and the stag and anyone else on that field to hear him. "But I can't let you put Sam at risk again. So either you're going to have to lower your gun too – or you're going to have to shoot me in front of him." It was as underhand and as manipulative as Jack at his best and Will was counting on that. He knew all too well that there was no escaping.

Dean stalked forward aggressively. He still had the shotgun up, was even twitching it back and forth a little, like a taunt, waiting to see what Will would do.

Will met his stare and waited.

Dean paused just out of reach. "Move!" he commanded.

"No."

"If I have to shoot your dumb ass, I will!"

"I know," Will assured him. He smiled a little without meaning to. He had no doubt what Dean would do for his brother. "I'm trying to help."

Dean's face twisted in frustration. "You don't understand."

Will held his stare. "I know all about monsters, Dean. I understand them more than you'd think. I know you and your father are trying to ride the world of some of them. That's why you're doing what you're doing. Not because you want to, but because you have to. Someone has to. And you're the oldest so you have to help and you have to take care of Sam. But Dean, you can't do both. You can't be both. You're going to have to choose one day, even if it's not today. Someday, it's going to come down to Sam or the monsters."

"Shuttup," Dean hissed. He took another step forward and shoved the barrel of his gun into Will sternum. He was close enough to touch now.

"You know I'm right," Will told him. "You're a smart boy. Clever. Quick to learn things just by watching. Looking. Look at me Dean, look at this, and tell me it's not going to end badly one day."

Dean was the first to break eye contact. He kept the barrel pushed firmly against Will's chest but looked down at the bundle by Will's feet. "Get up, Sam."

"But Dean – "

"Now, Sammy!"

"But there's something behind Mr. Will!"

Will could hear the frustration in Dean's voice, how it was replacing the fear. That was good thing. Being frustrated would make it harder for Dean to make clear decisions. Decreased fear meant he was less likely to hurt Will. Dean was too much like his father, too tightly controlled and efficient to strike out in anger. Will was sure of it.

That's why it caught him off guard when Dean's hand snapped out, caught him by the collar and threw him to the ground. Will weighed twice as much as the boy, but Dean had surprise and leverage on his side and took Will down as easy as a drill instructor. This was not a part of the design. Will landed awkwardly, but managed to roll quickly onto his back. Dean was significantly less likely to shoot him if he had to look Will in the eye to do it. But given how this was already so far from what Will had predicted him to do, even that might not hold up.

But Dean wasn't pointing the gun down at him. He had it up against his shoulder, pointed across the field, eyes darting back and forth and his feet spread out. "Where Sammy?"

That was when Will realized Sam was crying. He was so quiet, Will could barely hear him over his own harsh breathing. "It was there, Dean. There's a m-monster. It kept coming and going, right behind Mr. Will. It wouldn't leave him alone."

"I don't see anything, Sammy." Dean sounded scared now. Very scared.

"Dean," Will tried. He wanted to reach out and touch him, but he was scared what might happen if he tried. He stayed down where he was, laying in the dirt and wet grass while Dean stood over him and Sam like a sentinel.

"It was real! It was real, Dean, I saw it!" Sam was struggling to his feet, kicking out at the blanket. He seemed more upset that his brother might not believe him than anything else.

Will had to get control of the situation. Things were rapidly devolving and the unpredictability was going to get someone hurt. "It isn't real –"

Sam turned to him. The tears had mostly stopped but the hurt was plain in his voice. "You saw it! You did!"

Dean didn't look down, but he twitched one foot to get Will's attention. "Did you see something?"

Will hesitated. He needed to say no. He needed to keep what was in his head contained and away from others. The absolute last thing he wanted was his own brand of crazy spreading out like an infection. But he'd already said too much to Sam. And Dean would know if he lied now. "It's not real," he whispered. "It's just a hallucination. It won't hurt Sam."

Dean was the opposite of reassured. He stepped over Will, nudging him back like he meant to crowd the two of them against the tree. "Can you see it now?"

Sam shook his head. He reached out to try and help Will scuttle backwards to avoid being stepped on. "Not now. It was big, like a deer. A giant deer. A giant evil deer."

"A stag," Will whispered.

"Right," Dean interjected. "What about you, you see it now?"

It took Will a moment to realize he was being addressed. "No," he replied as evenly as possible. As if a teenage suspect with a gun wasn't asking him about his hallucinations.

"But you've seen it before."

"Yes," Will agreed. He sat up straighter when it was clear that Dean was more focused on watching the tree line than what he was doing. He thought about trying to subdue the boy. It wouldn't take much coming from behind. But then Sam was squirming into his lap and tangling the two of them in the ragged blanket. Foiled by his own device. "That doesn't mean it's real, Dean. It's a hallucination," he explained quickly, trying not to think about what he was saying, what he was admitting to. But making Dean understand there was nothing there that could hurt them was more important than whatever little bit of pride Will might have left. "It's been happening for a while now, I know it's not real. No one else sees it Dean. It doesn't really exist. It can't affect anything real. Your brother was just scared. We both were, sitting in the dark. It's completely natural that he might think he saw something. It's a high stress situation," Will emphasized. "But things are going to be fine now. We all just need to calm down."

Dean didn't move a muscle. "But you saw it too."

Will shuddered and tried to pretend it was the cold. He didn't want to think about anything from his head getting into Sam's. "Shared hallucinations are not as uncommon as you would think. Not under high stress environments with the secondary person from an at risk category like a child." It was so painfully easy to get children to believe things. And Will was a prime example of an over active imagination building mountains out of mole hills.

"So you're saying he's crazy," Dean summarized sounding about as pleased with that idea as one might expect.

"No, it's more like I probably am," Will answered. "I even have the therapist to prove it," he added, in a weak attempt at humor. That was about as honest as Will could manage.

Dean's eyes flicked down to him. "'Cause you see things other people don't."

"That is the general definition of crazy, yes."

Dean's arms dropped suddenly, the gun no long pointed at an invisible enemy but nestled comfortable in the crook of one arm. "Whatever. People don't know shit. You don't see it now, right?" he confirmed, finally turning to face Will.

"No."

"Good enough for me. Come on, Sam, we gotta catch up with Dad."

"Wait!" Will exclaimed at the same time Sam demanded "Why?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "'Cause I said so, dork. You weren't supposed to leave the car."

Sam scowled back even as he climbed to his feet. "He said I had to. There were monsters. He's a cop."

Will scrambled back up at the same time. Dean was more than a foot shorter than him, but he still had the gun held ready to use at a moment's notice.

"Thought you were FBI," Dean asked, giving him a hard look. It had all the sass of a preteen but his body language was still loose.

"I was a cop," Will explained. "Then I became a special agent."

"And a teacher!" Sam added excitedly. He'd gathered up the blanket to take it with him, but instead of stepping towards Dean, he snaked out one arm and took a tight grip on Will's hand. Will startled before clamping down as firmly as he dared.

"A teacher?" Dean repeated divisively, sounding even more like he belonged in a mall or arcade and not holding a shotgun. If anything, Will was losing credibility. Normally people liked the idea that he was a teacher. It made it easier for them to excuse his eccentric behavior.

Will watched Dean for a moment. There had been no talk of what was happening on the hill. They could both hear noises in the background, but nothing close enough to see the three of them. Dean was here looking for Sam, but his father wasn't. And Sam seemed to have little clue as to what was really going on. But Dean had been in the asylum. He would have seen the agents there to catch him. But he stood calmly before Will, unafraid of what might happen to them once he'd confirmed that there was no mysterious deer monster waiting in the shadows for them.

"I teach people how to hunt monsters," Will announced, taking a chance and hoping like hell it wouldn't back fire on him. Alana would have his hide for playing into what he suspected was at best family brainwashing and at worst true shared delusions. But he needed Dean on his side, and for once Will's ability to see things might make him likable.

"That's so cool!" Sam proclaimed. For a moment Dean looked down at his little brother with an expression of such desperate hope and pride that Will realized what he had only began to suspect. Sam had no clue what Dean and their father were doing. Certainly, he knew about the guns and the traveling. He probably understood that there was something different about their family. Maybe suspected that things weren't as publicly acceptable as they ought to be. He likely rarely talked about his home life with anyone else. Probably didn't get the chance to talk much to anyone outside of the family at all.

But somehow Dean had managed to keep his little brother Sam isolated from the darkness that defined his father.

It was heartbreakingly impressive.

"Dean," Will said softly. "If your father…. If he's not with the others, he will have to be long away from here by now."

Dean's hands tightened till the skin turned white. "He wouldn't leave us," was all he said.

But Sam shrugged. "Dad travels a lot," he explained easily. These were the simple facts of his life. The ones he'd learned to use to explain why things were different for him. "He goes away sometimes but he always comes back. Right, Dean?"

Dean just nodded but he met Will's stare and Will could see endless days of trying to hold things together, trying to keep everything quiet and hidden, even from little Sammy, and how much Dean knew they were in trouble this time.

Will stroked his thumb across the back of Sam's hand. He wanted to reach out for Dean, but he knew better. "Jack will be here soon," he said quietly. "Along with all the others. We can't miss them." And Dean wouldn't be able to avoid them. Even if he left Sam behind. Will's head ached and he had to look away. He didn't want to see any more of Dean's life. "How about we just sit here, then?" he suggested. "It's nice and quiet here. We can sit and wait for them so no one will be worried." Or alarmed by the sight of an armed preteen. Alarmed people had an unfortunate tendency to react without thinking.

Dean understood exactly what Will was saying.

He stared back in silence. Will let him take his time to decided, even as Sam squirmed between them eager to go or stay as long as something happened. But Dean was backed into a corner and he knew it. And Dean would always do what was best for Sam.

He shrugged suddenly, as if shaking off the dark, as if none of this matter. "Sure. Whatever. Might as well." He stepped forward, one hand automatically reaching out to mess with Sam's hair, even as the other, purposefully, decisively, thrust the side of shotgun into Will's chest for him to take. The long stock smacked him solidly from shoulder to hip, but Will got his hands up in time to catch it. Dean flopped down on the ground between two large roots that rose up to frame him or maybe cradle him. He jerked Sam down beside him, blanket and all. And when Sam scooted over so there was just enough room for a third person, Will slowly squatted down and fit himself into that niche. The gun he set down carefully outside of their little nest and in clear view on his side.

The three of them huddled together for warmth in the early morning air. They watch the sun rise over the mountains. And waited for the FBI.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little short, but the next one's back to being long, so please bear with me!

 

Dean was right in that their father wasn't caught. Despite being vastly outnumbered and seeming pinned in to a controlled area, he slipped passed them all and disappeared. And despite what Dean wanted to believe, he did leave behind his two sons.

Will had no doubt that their father had every intention of coming back for his sons. That was the only reason he was able to convince Jack to keep them together and under their watchful eye rather than have Dean in shackles on his way to the nearest facility. If there was still a chance of ensnaring their primary killer, than Jack wanted the situation where he could control it, proper procedure be damned.

So while Jack drove and Beverley sat in the front as back-up, Will was in the back with an overly curious, but oblivious, six year old and a proto-serial killer preteen with abandonment issues.

It made for an uncomfortable two hour drive up to Quantico.

Dean hadn't spoken a word since the three of them had been found under the tree. Will had made sure his arm was thrown around the two of them, his other hand free to wave congenially at the men and women with guns and body armor when they had arrived. His relaxed body language, and the fact that the shotgun was clearly out of reach, had kept everyone calm enough for Jack to take over and discuss the situation with Will. Dean might be a murder suspect but he was also only eleven. And he looked much smaller and fragile without a gun in his hands.

Jack had been willing to take a chance. Especially after Will pointed out that it would be a sad day if a FBI agent couldn't handle an unarmed pre-teen.

Arguing for Sam had been easier. He was six and cute. The large group of people seemed to have intimidated him however. So one hand had stayed wrapped around Dean's while the other was attached to Will. "So the monster doesn't come back," Sam had explained. When Dean had heard that, he had stopped trying to edge away and had stayed close to both of them. They had made for an interesting human train moving out of the field and into one of the waiting SUVs.

"Where are we going?" Sam finally asked. They were now on the highway and had a long drive in front of them. Thankfully, Will had been able to talk Beverly into snagging some more McDonalds food for the kids. Kids needed food regularly. She'd consented, but only because she wanted ice cream. She was even generous enough to bring some back for Dean and Sam as well. Her good will didn't extend to the rest of the team, but Sam insisted Will try a bite of his.

It wasn't bad, but Will would rather hold the cold cup up against his forehead. The headache that never left was back in full force. He'd dry swallowed four pills under Dean's watchful eye, but it was only barely taking the edge off. Cars seemed to make the headaches worse these days. He felt cross eyed looking out the window and wanted to put his head down somewhere dark.

But Sam had been so good during everything, it felt wrong to ignore him now. And Jack's sharp bark of "Quantico" probably didn't tell a child like Sam much.

"It's a bit farther north of here," Will explained. "About two hours. It's where our offices are."

Sam nodded. He had experience driving through states. "Will Dad know we're there?"

Jack sent Will a dark look in the review mirror. Dean caught it and his shoulders hunched in even further. Not exactly helpful. "This is only temporary," Will reassured him. "We'll get everything straightened out."

"How long will we be there?"

Will gritted his teeth. He didn't want to lie. It was part of why he was terrible with kids. He never knew how to tell them what they wanted to hear.

Sam's focus shifted, lightening quick, to his brother. "Can I go to school there?" he asked.

Dean stayed silent but scowled back and rolled his eyes and huffed like he'd never heard such a stupid question. Sam stuck his tongue out at him in response. But Will didn't miss the clenched jaw and hands, the bouncing of one knee, the wide eyed look of terror. Dean had a pretty good idea what was in store for them if they were separated from their father long enough for there to be discussions of schooling and housing.

Jack was going to question Dean three ways from Sunday once they were in an interview room. But if the past few hours were anything to go by, he wouldn't get a word out of the older boy. And there was only so much pressure he could exert. There had been no shotgun rounds at any of their murder scenes, but Dean had fired back at federal agents. He hadn't hit anyone, thank god, however. And while there was very strong suggestive evidence that Dean had at least been present at the Sparta crime scene and had even shot a man, they had no murder weapon and no finger prints to link him conclusively. Even then, Jack would be hard pressed to find a judge willing to throw the book at an eleven year old that by all appearances had been dragged cross-country by his deranged father and forced into hunting and beheading "monsters".

The only thing Jack had that he could use against Dean was Sam. And if Alana didn't step in to keep the youngest boy out of this shit storm then Will would. It was a miracle Sam wasn't more damaged than he was. Anything they could do to mitigate that harm could mean the difference between years of therapy and a normal life for Sam.

Sam had slipped back into silence that was only a bit sullen. There were no comic books here to keep him entertained. The new car seemed diverting enough and he spent a few minutes poking at everything he could reach, including things on Dean's side of the car. Their squabbles were silent and well-practiced.

Will closed his eyes and leaned against the cool glass. This car trip was going to be his only chance to figure out what to do once they reached Langley.

He knew proper procedure with a case like this. It involved some questioning, a lot of time spent with a social worker and possible clinical time for Dean at least.

The profiler in him also knew that Dean and Sam's father would come looking for them. He hadn't dragged them across country and taught Dean to protect Sam for no reason. Likely he saw these "monsters" as a direct threat to his children. Leaving them in anyone else's hands would be unacceptable. Jack wouldn't have to worry about catching their killer at a crime scene, he was probably already on his way to them.

The part of him that looked at Sam and saw a clever mind with an imagination so like his own but better and brighter – the same part of him that looked at Dean and saw the real ghosts and monsters that would follow him for the rest of his life after a trauma like this – the part of him that saw killers as people and people as so much more than the bits and pieces they showed to the outside world – that part of him knew this wasn't going to work.

He hadn't struggled so hard to keep Sam out of the worst of it to simply walk away and let things fall apart. He'd seen too much of that these days. He'd done all he could for Abigail. And he'd always known that the Lost Boys where beyond his help. But Sam and Dean were different.

There was so much good in them. The way they looked after each other. Their sense of humor. The way they gravitated towards any kindness. The fact that the first reaction for both of them was to protect Will when they thought there was a monster. So many people had tried to fix Will over the years. Few of them had ever offered to hold his hand and stay nearby "just in case".

It was stupid getting attached like this. It was overly emotional. Very unprofessional.

Will slipped out his phone and started typing.


	6. Chapter 6

Hannibal was waiting for them in the parking lot. He had had to rearrange two of his sessions, but he assured Will that he did not mind. "Emergencies do not wait on the convenience of others," he responded to Will's disjointed apology via text message. "My patients will understand that those with the greatest need must sometimes take precedence."

Will was absurdly, embarrassingly, happy that Hannibal was the first thing they saw when they got out of the car. Jack gave him a look that could peel paint, but Will kept his eyes down and tried to hide his smile.

Hannibal had left his jacket somewhere, and looked relaxed and comfortable in his deep blue vest and rolled up pale brown shirt sleeves. He probably fit the image of a teacher much better than Will did in his grass stained kakis and sweaty plaid shirt.

"Welcome back," Hannibal greeted them warmly, as if this were a meeting of old friends. He even smiled at Will and reached out to shake his hand. It wasn't something they normally did. Will wasn't fond of skin on skin contact, and while Hannibal often placed a hand on his shoulder or elbow to guide him, he usually did not press the point. But this time his grip was firm and warm and all-encompassing as he used both hands to shake Will's one. It shifted Will bodily from standing alongside Beverly and Jack to standing with Hannibal. Without missing a beat, Hannibal held his hand out first to Dean.

"My name in Hannibal Lecter, I'm a friend of Will's," he told him. It wasn't a smile on Hannibal's face, but there was something deliberately open and welcoming about his body language.

Dean held out for a moment before smacking his hand into Hannibal's and shaking it like it was something he only saw on TV. "Dean," he muttered. He kept his eyes down, darting looks up at Hannibal to judge him before glancing passed him to Will for confirmation. Will managed his best smile, and at the same time, did not make eye contact with Jack.

The reaming out he was in for when this was all over worth would be extraordinary. He still really did not care.

"I'm Sam!" the younger boy chimed in, right on queue.

"I am very pleased to meet you, Sam," Hannibal replied with the same sense of dignity and respect he used with the lawyers, doctors and politicians who were often guests of his house. "Shall we move this inside? Alana is waiting for us, with something to drink."

"Dr. Lecter," Jack interrupted. Dean flinched at the title. "What are you doing here?"

Hannibal gave him his best bland look and Will almost snickered. The phrase a 'mouth that wouldn't melt butter' ran through his mind. "Alana requested my presence, given the situation," he stressed the last word as if this was a mess of Jack's making. "It is only prudent that we both be on hand in lieu of other professional representation. With a situation as fluid and uncertain as this one, we must be extra careful to ensure that everything is done properly. Would you agree, Agent Crawford?"

Will watched everything unfold as if he had had nothing to do with its coming to be. What Hannibal told Jack was a lie. Or at least, partially a lie.

Will had been the one to contact Hannibal, sending him a series of fragmented text messages, briefly describing the situation without going into any detail. Expressing his concerns over what would happen to Dean and Sam. Asking, without asking, for Hannibal to do something to fix it. He had expected some advice, maybe a helpful phone call to one of Hannibal's many influential associates. That Hannibal insisted on being there to meet them, to mitigate Jack's "blatant disregard for the mental wellbeing of those involved in his cases," was more than Will had let himself hope for.

He wasn't used to people coming to his rescue and Hannibal was not the type to involve himself beyond what was necessary. Will had no doubt that Hannibal would do the best he could for any patient in his care. He had the reputation to prove it, and more importantly, the drive to gain control of a situation that would allow for nothing short of perfection when involved in a task. But both he and Will worked in professions that exposed them far too often to hurt and damaged kids for that to be the only reason Hannibal was here. He didn't rearrange his schedule and drive all the way down here because there were two more boys in the world that needed help. Will knew that. That handshake had made it very clear. Hannibal was here because Will needed him.

That didn't stop Dean from looking hopeful. When Jack had addressed Hannibal as a doctor, Dean had looked about ready to run even if it was pointless. He was cognizant enough of his own situation to know what kind of doctor they might want him to see. But Dean was a shrewd boy. He had good survival instincts and knew how to watch those around him and judge whether or not they were a threat. Hannibal's subtle power play with Jack did not go unnoticed. And Dean had clearly already decided that Jack was the biggest threat there.

But if the boy kept that smug smile up, he was going to find himself still in trouble. Will frowned at him and shook his head. Dean caught the message. He tucked his chin down and tried to lose the smarmy look.

"Are you a cop too?" Sam asked Hannibal before Jack could work up an appropriate response.

Hannibal clasped his hands behind his back and bent slightly at the waist to get a better look at the young boy. "No, I am not," he replied in a tone that was both clearly pleased not to be and at the same time regretful for any disappointment that might cause Sam. He was studying Sam's face intently and Will couldn't help but wonder what he saw there. Will looked at people and saw the cracks and shadows and damages life left on them. Was it the same for a doctor like Hannibal? Or did he see potential? A life spent trying to help people surely must come with some kind of hope. Will at least hoped it did.

But Sam just shrugged, unalarmed by the attention and hardly heartbroken by the negative response. "He said he was a cop," he explained, pointing at Will. "But he's also a teacher. So maybe you're a doctor but also a cop."

Hannibal gave him a smile. "I am afraid I am not as multitalented as William is."

Will's face flushed bright red and he shuffled forward. "Alright! Let's get inside. I'm cold." He didn't mean for the last part to sound so petulant but cold, wet, Virginia winters were not his favorite.

"An excellent idea," Hannibal agreed and there was that hand along his shoulder blade, guiding him away from the parking lot. Sam was quick to lead the way, even if he didn't know where he was going. Poor Dean struggled between wanting to walk behind Will and Hannibal so he wasn't showing them his back, and wanting to be close to Sam and away from Jack in the rear. It resulted in a half turned shuffle walk that should have looked ridiculous. But there was something tightly controlled and graceful about the way Dean moved his body that looked utterly foreign in a pre-teen still struggling with growth spurts.

Hannibal had thought ahead and predicted that Jack would try to herd them into an interview room as soon as they entered the building. So he had Alana waiting just inside the doors. She had her hair down and was wearing a soft looking pale green blouse that made her look lovely. She smiled kindly when she saw them. Will didn't miss the way she had positioned herself dead center in the hallway, with no way to pass her without making a scene.

He had hesitated to contact her but Hannibal had insisted. They needed another ally and Alana was burning for an excuse to correct Jack's behavior. Will was worried that level of personal and professional investment might make her overwhelming for Sam and Dean. Even Will, as much as he liked Alana and knew her well, sometimes felt like her drive to know and understand and control what was around her was too much.

Hannibal had almost sounded offended when Will had suggested the potential issue. He had insisted that no student of his would ever be so crass. Will had been quick to apologize and assure the other man that no offense was intended. He honestly hadn't realized how much harder he found it these days to talk to her. It wasn't that he didn't like her or that he didn't trust her, but Hannibal at least didn't give him those pitying looks when he admitted to struggling with the dark places work took him. Will couldn't explain all of that in a text message – or any other way for that matter – but the hastily typed attempt seemed to appease the other man. In fact, he had almost sounded smug in his reply, if a text message could sound smug.

Alana greeted them all warmly, but her feet were shoulder width apart and she was already gesturing them into the 1st floor conference room that was usually used for the much more benign things like public affairs meetings and HR training sessions. It was about as far from the working parts of the building as one could get and still be in the same structure. That wasn't a coincidence and Will could respect the low level warfare at play. He did seem to surround himself with people who knew oh, so well how to play those games. It should probably worry him more than it fid, but for right now he was just happy to have it working in his favor.

"Hello! " Alana called out sweetly and loud enough to carry across the foyer. "I hope the drive wasn't too bad. Hannibal brought cookies." It was a simple plan, a bit underhanded, and worked like a charm. She quickly had both boys through the door and settling in around the ostentatious conference table with drinks and chocolate cookies. Jack was muttering under his breath, but didn't seem willing to argue about it with all three of them at the same time. Not in public at least. He settled for sitting at the head of the table and glaring at Dean.

Will glanced at the cookies then at Hannibal. There were sprinkles on some of them.

Hannibal sighed deeply. "Not my own creations, I'm afraid. I picked them up from the bakery near my office. A lovely place, I assure you. They make a splendid focaccia."

"They're really good," Sam agreed, his mouth full of crumbs. Dean wasn't much better, but he was more focused on his soda and ignoring Jack.

"They came highly recommended by another customer your age," Hannibal informed him. "I am very pleased you like them, Sam." He nudged Will towards the same side of the table as the boys before moving to sit across from Jack.

Alana was already in place across the table from the boys, leaning on her elbows. "My name is Alana," she explained. "I've been told you're Dean and Sam."

Sam interrupted her before she could continue. "Are you a friend of Will's too?"

Will cringed in his seat at the look Jack sent his way, but Hannibal and Alana were both beaming for some reason.

"Yes, yes, I am," she answered, giving Will a look that might have been hope inspiring under different circumstances. At the moment, Will couldn't help but think it was a bit like a teacher proud of something her pupil had done. He just didn't know if it was for involving himself in Dean and Sam's fate or for going against Jack. Either way it left him feeling like his performance was being judge, even if it was favorably, and not like this was something they were doing together as equals.

Sam nodded as if hearing that Alana was Will's friend told him everything he needed to know, then he 'snuck' another cookie.

"I have to ask a few questions," Alana continued. "We'll try to keep things simple."

An impossibility, but bless her for trying. Dean knew it and kept taking sips from his can like he could hide behind the action. At the rate he was going he was going to need another soon, and probably a bathroom. Will wouldn't put it passed him for that to be part of the plan and made a note to himself to make sure he 'needed' to go at the same time. Will might not have worked extensively with juveniles but he knew most of the tricks. There was nothing quite like being out-done by a teenager to get a bunch of cops gossiping.

"Do you know where your dad is?" Alana asked, not pulling any punches. Will could appreciate that straight forwardness. Jack was practically vibrating waiting for the response. And Dean looked like a man being offered the electric chair.

"No," he answered tersely.

Sam glanced at him and shrugged his shoulders. When Alana focused in on him, he cleared his throat and recited "Dad travels a lot. He'll be back real soon. Dean's watching me until then."

"Okay," Alana agreed, smoothly ignoring the fact that Dean wasn't legally old enough for that responsibility. "I know things have been very confusing lately, but we need to know where he might be. Before someone else gets hurt. Do you know where he might have gone?"

Dean's leg was bouncing again. Will could feel it next to his own. But Dean kept his eyes down and his mouth shut.

Alana's expression didn't change one bit from polite interest. "He was following some very frightened people. Do you know how he knew where they were?"

Sam stopped eating cookies. "Is Dad okay?" he asked his brother.

Dean glanced over at him, clearly torn. "He's fine, Sammy, now shuttup."

"Perhaps we should look at different rooms," Jack suggested.

Dean's face paled and he snatched up Sam's hand under the table. It was impossible to say what he might have done next. Will could clearly see him literally trying to make a run for it. Or for the screaming to start. Dean put on a good face, but at least three people in the room could see Dean was only a hairs breath away from panicking. And that was not going to end well for anyone, not even Jack.

"Absolutely not," Hannibal ordered. Dean's head whipped around to stare at him.

"I agree," Alana added and got her own look of disbelief and heartbreaking gratitude from Dean. "We have no reason to believe your father has been harmed," Alana informed them, picking her words carefully but keeping her voice level. "We are very concerned about where he might be, however."

Sam shrugged again. He was no longer interested in his cookies and seemed to be following Dean's order of keeping quiet. This was not how they needed this conversation to go.

Will shifted in his seat. "You've been to a lot of states," he commented. Traveling was clearly a fixture of their lives. It was what passed for normal for them. "Have you ever been to Louisiana?" he asked.

Dean shook his head. It was just a touch too ardently for someone like Will to believe, but that wasn't his focus right now. The answer to the question didn't matter as much as getting the boys to think about something else.

"I grew up there," Will explained. "Well, mostly there. My father was a fisherman and we traveled a bit for that during the season." Both boys were staring at him. Dean seemed really confused about why Will was the one doing the talking. Sam had that wonderful look of curiosity back on his face. Will hadn't realized till then how much he missed it.

Hannibal and Alana were also both staring at him with a fixated intensity that made him want to crawl under the table. Will wasn't in the habit of talking about himself, his past or his childhood. He had been told that was one of many the off putting things about him, that he didn't ever talk about himself. Will privately thought that was ridiculous, since there always seemed to be other people more than willing to talk about themselves, but apparently not sharing any private stories about your life was just as bad as oversharing. This was not the form Will would have preferred for such a talk, but he could see where this was going and it was his one shot to get the boys to talk enough to satisfy Jack.

"What kind of car did you have?" Sam asked.

Will frowned, trying to remember if his father had even owned a car back in those days. Will had always walked or ridden the bus, all the way through high school, for everything from groceries to work. He tried to remember if there had been one when he was younger. "I don't think we had one."

Sam frowned and bit into a cookie. "How'd you travel then if you didn't have a car?"

Will smiled. "By boat."

Sam's eyes widened. "Cool."

Will grinned back. "It was. It felt like we could go anywhere. My father even let me steer." Mostly when he was drunk, but the memories were still good.

Sam was duly impressed. He turned a speculative look on his brother. Dean scoffed loudly. "Forget it," he announced. "No way is Dad letting you anywhere near the wheel of the car. You couldn't even reach the pedals, shrimp."

"Could to!"

"In your dreams!"

Alana looked very pleased with everything but poor Hannibal had the most peculiar expression. Will had never seen the other man around children and wondered what he was like. They didn't seem like something that would mix well with his sophisticated tastes. Will struggled not to smile as he risked another look.

Hannibal was watching him now. Focused.

Will looked away. "It is a lovely machine. A Chevrolet? Early '70s?"

Dean hesitated. The car was important. It was their home. The one constant in the insanity that was their life. But the FBI was in the process of towing it back to Quantico, not far behind them. Price and Zeller had already given it a quick look over for any obvious clues, but were eager to do a close, in-depth analysis. Within a few hours they would know everything that had been in the car and everywhere the car had been. There was still a good chance they would be able to track the father with nothing more than that. Just as Will could learn so much by looking at a killer's work, Price and Zeller knew how to find all the secrets of a man by where he lived and what he owned. It was working backwards from what they usually had, and from what Will had heard, the two were thrilled by the opportunity.

Finally Dean signed and picked at the lid of his soda can. "It's a '67," he corrected. "Impala."

"That's an old car. What did you have before it?"

"Just the Impala."

Just the Impala. Just his father. Just his younger brother. Dean's life was made up of just a few things.

Will thought for a moment. He didn't want to ask anything too personal. He hated questions like that and he was a mostly fully functioning adult. "How'd she handle the mountains?"

"Just fine," Dean answered, sounding a little offended at the question. Not personally, however, cause his eyes came up to meet Will's. "She's in great condition."

Will nodded back. Of course she was. His father wouldn't settle for anything less. And he had taught that same need for perfection and control to his son. It was not uncommon in serial killers. But Dean wasn't the man his father was. He loved the car. It wasn't just a tool to him, it was home, and safety for Sam and something to be proud of. Will wanted to ask him how much maintenance he did, did he know how to dismantle the engine, had he snuck a drive in while his father was busy.

"Will," Jack's voice was perfectly level, not an octave above polite and not a hint of anything but authority. "I think we have other things to discuss than automobiles."

"Too true, I'm afraid," Hannibal agreed. He splayed his hands out regretfully. "We will have to save that discussion for later, Dean. Maybe over dinner. I'm certain your brother and you could stand to eat something more substantial than road food. Unfortunately, Alana does have a few more questions to ask. We will try to keep everything very basic. Please let us know if there is anything you don't understand or have questions about."

Coming from Jack, a speech like that would have sounded threatening, even to Will. Coming from Hannibal, however, it was a simple explanation of the situation and an invitation to engage. He did the same thing when working with Will. And while it should bother Will to realize how often Hannibal had managed him the same way he was managing Dean, it was hard to argue with good results. Dean was still tense and restless, but he was willing to make eye contact with Hannibal and even managed a weak smile for Alana.

"Shoot," he announced. "I'm an open book."

It was a decent attempt at nonchalance. Alana rewarded him with another smile. "How long have you been on the road, Dean?"

"Forever," Sam sighed tragically. Will kept his head tilted down as he smiled. He'd forgotten how engaging children could be.

Dean ignored the outburst. Apparently it wasn't unusual or something he felt threatened by. "Dad travels for work, so we travel a lot."

"What does your father do?" Hannibal asked as if this was one of his dinner parties. Even Will almost believed he had no wish to know other than mild curiosity.

"He's a salesman," Dean answered promptly. It was part of the script. Dean knew what answers to give for these kinds of questions. He had probably been doing so for years. Will knew both Hannibal and Alana were aware of that, and they were walking him through each of the normal expected questions so Dean could have the control of giving his normal expected answers. Whatever little tidbits they managed to pull out in the process would help them figure out their killer's next move. After all, he had been grooming Dean to take part in his work. Dean was, in many ways, his father's design. He would be the one to tell them more about the man than anything else could, all without even knowing it.

But Jack rarely had the patience for such things. He saw a connection and he took it. "What does he sell?" he asked. He managed to keep his voice neutral, however, hiding his own excitement at a possible lead behind the bored official tone he used for agency meetings.

Dean shrugged. "Stuff."

Jack's jaw tightened. "What kind of stuff?"

"I don't know," Dean replied. "Stuff."

Will laughed. It was terribly, terribly inappropriate, and he quickly covered his mouth and muttered an apology. It was just, if someone had asked for a performance of a sulking teenager with an undertone of "fuck you" it would be Dean. He knew Dean knew what they were after. Just like they knew Dean was playing dumb. But he did it so effectively, it was in its own way brilliant. He could likely keep them going like this for hours. Or at least until one of the adults in the room cracked and started yelling.

Will did a quick check of the room, careful not to meet anyone's eyes. Laughing during an interview was not proper. It could have been worse, however. Jack was annoyed, but Jack was always annoyed and seemed willing to overlook the gaffe. Alana was still smiling sweetly at Dean and Sam but there was a slight tension around her eyes and a stiffness in the way she didn't look at Will that suggested she was not as comfortable with Will's interference. Dean was practically preening. He clearly thought someone had recognized his brilliance.

And Hannibal was back to staring at Will. He didn't even look offended by what surely must have been a rude response. He almost seemed to find it entertaining. Will caught himself staring back when they made eye contact and quickly turned to look at the wall behind Dean.

He didn't know why the other man was being so helpful with this. And he didn't like not knowing things.

"What grade are you in?" Alana asked.

"Second!" Sam let her know enthusiastically. "My last school had a gerbil. I couldn't take 'em home when it was my turn 'cause I had to tell my teacher I was allergic but I used to feed him at school and taught him how to do a silly dance and my teacher said my homework on gerbils was the best one 'cause I explained how they're different from hamsters. Hamsters sleep during the day and like to bite and gerbils are friendlier and have tails. I think they're smarter too but my teacher said we'd have to have a hamster too to check we can't have two class pets but maybe when I'm older I can ask my dad but I want a dog."

"You can't have a dog, stupid," Dean replied in a weary tone of voice that suggested this conversation had happened many a time before. "And it doesn't matter what rodent is smarter. They're rodents. We sure as hell don't need to be bringing one along with us. There's enough of them around anyway. Try capturing one of those and you're going to get a bit hand, dumb ass."

Sam frowned. "Mr. Cinnamon never bit me," he reasoned.

"Yeah, cause you fed him rabbit food." Dean paused, then added somewhat hastily. "Don't feed the rats rabbit food. Don't feed the rats, at all. Don't go near the fucking rats, period."

Sam scowled back. "Language, Dean," he muttered. But it wasn't his normal tone of voice. It was the way an adult would say it, a sharp barked out command that expected obedience. A child mimicking a killer's reprimand. Will shuddered.

"Dad's not here," Dean muttered back. "So shut your cake hole."

"What grade are you in, Dean?" Alana asked. Will knew she didn't want them talking about their father directly. She'd tried asking point blank and Dean had frozen up. Getting him to talk about mundane things was the only option left.

Dean shrugged. "Sixth?" he answered as he looked away from Alana.

Will nodded. "Traveling a lot can make that hell. I think I was reassigned into different grades at least three times."

"Doesn't matter," Dean replied, but he was watching Will now, looking for something. "It's just school."

"I like school," Sam complained.

"Yeah, well, you're a dork."

"What the last school you went to?" Alana asked Sam.

Dean frowned but let his younger boy answer. Alana didn't do anything so obvious as write down the name, but it would hopefully help them track where the family was before the killing spree started. Dean refused to give them a last name, and even Sam, when asked, insisted it was Smith. He was very positive of that. He was a clever boy, good at remembering details and bit too proud of that fact for it to seem natural. And simply too young to realize that there was something not right about those details.

With no name to go on, they were stuck still trying to map out the history of the car and where the family had been. The name of a school helped. And with a boy as smart as Sam, there was a good chance someone there would remember him.

"You mentioned wanting a dog, Sam," Hannibal interjected. "Have you ever had one before?"

Sam sighed tragically. "No. Dean said we're not allowed."

Hannibal's focus shifted to the older boy. "Do you not like dogs, Dean?"

Dean shifted in his seat. "They're fine," he answered. "Just stupid. And we can't exactly keep one in the car."

"Dog's aren't stupid!" Sam exclaimed. "You just don't like them since Bowser bit you."

"Shuttup, Sam," Dean muttered, turning red.

"What happened with Bowser?" Will asked. He was a firm believer that a lot could be said about a person by how they respond to dogs. Maybe not with true psychopaths, since even they had pets sometimes, but for people in general, dogs were a great litmus test.

"Nothin'," Dean replied immediately. But he kept his chin down and only looked at Will out of the corner of his eye. They all waited, and when Alana shifted in preparation of asking her next question, Hannibal shook his head. Dean kept glancing at Will and Will forced himself to stare back.

"The dog was a menace!" Dean finally insisted. "Damn thing chased ever kid in the motel. Had to throw empty cans at him more than once to get it to leave 'em the fuck alone. Asshole next door kept lettin' it out of the yard even after I told him. Cussed me out for confrontin' him on it, the jackass."

Will closed his eyes briefly, picturing it. "When did it finally bite you?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Ran out of things to throw at it one day."

Will hesitated. This couldn't have been too long ago. Dean was still too tense about the encounter, and Sam clearly remembered it very well despite his age. "Did you try one of the guns?" he asked.

Dean's surprise was genuine. "It was a dog," he said as if that explained everything. When Will continued to stare back at him, he huffed and added "Stupid fuckin' mutt doesn't know any better. Not like it's actually evil or something."

A large part of Will was relieved. It clearly hadn't even occurred to Dean to try shooting the animal, despite what sounded like a potentially dangerous situation and Dean's own familiarity and comfort with firearms. This was a good sign. Alana was smiling brightly at him. It was a check mark in his favor that despite not liking the dog, he still felt a moral and ethical obligation to another life form. Will was happy they'd have one more argument for treating Dean as a victim and not a perpetrator.

But a part of him, the part that saw things a little bit differently than everyone else, was caught on the last thing Dean had said. "It's not actually evil." It was a simple statement, and not out of place in the context of the conversation. But it wasn't the kind of thing normally said by a ten year old boy more likely to cuss than use moralistic analogies.

"Do you believe in evil, Dean?" Will asked quietly. He didn't know if he wanted an answer. Especially in front of Jack. To not believe in evil would be foolish, and Dean was far from naïve. But the context, the situation, his father, made Dean believing in evil a dangerous thing.

Dean looked straight at him even when Will wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Yes."


	7. Chapter 7

"This is a colossal waste of time!" Jack announced before they had taken two steps out of the conference room.

Alana gritted her teeth even as she smiled. She was still in the door way, saying goodbye to the boys. "We'll just be a moment," she told them before shutting the door firmly. She turned sharply on one heel, the smile dropping from her face. "Jack Crawford, you have two traumatized, severely isolated, neglected and most likely abused children in that room. Nothing about this is a waste of time."

"I have to agree with the good doctor," Hannibal murmured. He kept his voice low as the four of them stood huddled together in the wide hallway. It was a very public space, usually used for visiting guests and events, not delicate conversations about interrogations and competency.

"The older boy helped his father kill those people," Jack countered. "We're lucky he didn't shoot Will."

"Will is a fully capable agent by your reckoning," Hannibal replied. "I am confident he had the situation under control.

Will wished he could say he did, but he tried not to lie to Jack. There had been a good chance Dean would shoot Will to save Sam if that's what he thought he had to do. Thankfully, Will had been able to convince him otherwise.

"You are not always so confident," Jack argued.

Hannibal stiffened. He was standing alongside Will, a looming presence of fine wool and clean cut lines. Will was grateful not to see his face. He was well aware that everyone was less than confident of his abilities. He didn't mind. But he didn't necessarily need to see it in his one friend.

"I have every confidence in William," Hannibal answered slowly. "It is the things surrounding Will that I sometimes question."

"Wow." That was maybe the nicest thing anyone had said about Will in a long time. And now everyone was staring at him. Will ducked his head down and focused on his breathing. "Nothing," he muttered.

It was silent for a moment more before Alana continued. But in that moment, Hannibal shifted slightly closer to Will and it made it even harder to pretend nothing had happened.

"I doubt Dean knows where his father is," she started.

"I think he does," Jack replied.

"But even if he did," she stressed, "he's far too emotionally involved and committed to ever tell us."

"He'll tell me," Jack said confidently. "If we stop holding his hand like he's a – "

"A child?" Alana interrupted. "Funny, because that's exactly what he is. He's ten years old, for god's sake, Jack! He's spent god knows how long with nothing but a delusional father with violent tendencies and a younger brother he's probably been half raising. You think you can just bluster your way through that kind of conditioning?"

"More than half," Will added. When everyone turned to stare at him again he cleared his throat and continued more loudly. "When Sam wanted a dog, Dean told him no. When we were in the field, Sam wasn't waiting for his father to come find him. He was waiting for Dean. I think it's a safe bet that much of the responsibility for Sam has fallen on Dean. It's possible that their father is either unwilling or incapable of providing the kind of stable support a child like Sam would need."

Alana immediately picked up where he left off. "By all signs, Sam is a very well-adjusted child. He's curious and friendly, not afraid of strangers, has the level of willfulness and difficulty following instructions that you would expect out of a child that age. He's not afraid to argue with his brother. He wants more in-depth and more numerous social and emotional contacts. That kind of social ability doesn't form in a vacuum."

"While Dean demonstrates many of the characteristics common of children who have grown up with neglect," Hannibal added. "He exhibits an unusually high degree of self-sufficiency and a clear confusion at the idea of receiving assistance. He instinctively does not trust most adults, especially authority figures, with the exception of dear Will. He hesitates to even speak of his father, despite the man's central role in his life. He understands that very little about his father is socially acceptable, including the way the man has raised his sons. He's careful to hide as much of that part of his life as he can. Even from his brother. Perhaps especially from his brother."

"It's his fault if something happens to Sam," Will continued. "He's completely responsible for Sam's emotional and physical wellbeing. He's structured his entire life around that. I'd wager he knows more about Sam's school life than he does his own. Dean knows how to be charming with strangers, but it fractures when he's stressed. Except when he's speaking to Sam. He shows no hesitation, no weakness, no hint that anything might be wrong in front of Sam." Will glanced at Hannibal. "That's why you wanted to speak with them together."

Hannibal gave a brief nod. "It is likely that once Sam is removed from Dean, the older boy will shut down completely. He maintains this presentation of normalcy for Sam's sake alone."

"We could use that," Jack stressed.

Will shook his head. "It won't be that kind of break down," Will told him. "This isn't an acute incident. We're talking long term severe stress, simply in their living conditions. Not to mention any violence he may have witness – "

Jack grumbled.

" – or potentially been a participant in. Jack," Will stressed, hoping the other man would remember why he had Will consulting on these cases in the first place. "Dean has been trapped alone, in a car with a madman for months if not years, with his safety and the safety of the younger brother he loves very much completely dependent on the whims of that madman. How many adults would hold up under that kind of pressure? I wouldn't." Will would have crumbled mere hours into such a thing. He knew that wasn't the strongest argument, but no one here was likely to call him on it to his face. They were all much too polite to call him crazy in public.

Jack's jaw was clenched but he was looking at Will. That meant he was thinking about what Will was saying. He didn't like it, but Jack didn't like a lot of things. And while he was always focused on stopping killers, he wasn't completely blind to the rest of the world.

"He's still a person of interest," Jack maintained, but it was a clear acceptance that maybe what Will and Alana and Hannibal were trying to tell him might be correct.

"Undoubtedly," Hannibal agreed. "While Dean is likely just as much a victim as anything else, he still has spent a significant amount of his formative years in close contact with a very dangerous man. It would be prudent to proceed with that influence in mind."

"That doesn't make him a killer," Will insisted, his voice just a touch louder than he would have liked.

Hannibal caught his eyes. "I am aware of that, Will. But the influence cannot be ignored, either."

Jack nodded. "What are your suggestions?" he demanded.

"Dean shows no sign of being a detriment to Sam's stability," Alana jumped in immediately. "I would recommend we keep them together. It will provide constancy for Dean. They will need to be observed, however, closely. Just because Sam isn't presenting any signs of distress does not mean that he can't or won't. Or that Dean might not be a trigger."

"Is that an argument to keep them together or separate them?"

"Together," Alana said firmly. "And in as normalized an environment as possible. Their perception of family life and expectations for adults are so deviant they won't understand the difference between typical and extenuating circumstances, or between temporary and permanent. They won't expect a situation to improve with good behavior. They'll accept it as the new normal for them and react as they see necessary."

"No institutions," Jack summarized in a droll tone of voice that let them know exactly how thrilled he was with that idea.

Alana crossed her arms. "Not unless you want them regressing. And Dean's going to be a right handful if he gets it into his head that Sam's wellbeing is compromised."

"Child services?"

"God no," Will exclaimed. He flushed when everyone turned to look at him after his outburst but pushed on. "Do you want child services to be the only thing standing between them and their father?"

Hannibal frowned. "You believe their father will try to retrieve them?"

"Absolutely."

"Why?" Hannibal asked mildly. "It would be a very risky action for a man that has shown himself to be very practical in his choices, even in the midst of his delusions. He has already left them once."

Will shook his head. "The lesser of two evil's in his mind."

Hannibal had shifted until his body was facing Will, hands clasped calmly in front of him. His lips twisted into a hint of a smile to take some of the bite out of what he said next. "You were a potential threat, Will. You could have shot Dean." Will immediately shook his head, but the other man continued. "It would have been a reasonable course of action when confronted with an armed suspect, particularly given the stress and uncertainty of the situation. No one would have held you in the wrong for such an action."

"I couldn't have done it," Will answered plainly.

Hannibal stared at him silently, as if he could see more than Will wanted him to. "Oh, Will," he finally sighed. "You have proven yourself only inclined to respond with necessary force when responsible for the life of another. It is very disappointing that you do not value your own wellbeing as highly. Another member of law enforcement would not have hesitated."

"They would have," Will insisted. He knew what Hannibal was implying. They had already had this discussion about being a survivor. He understood that Hannibal wanted what was best for Will and was highly alarmed by what he saw as a self-destructive tendency. But Hannibal just didn't understand how close to the abyss Will stood. He would never suggest such a thing if he did.

Hannibal shook his head before reaching out to firmly clasp Will's shoulder. "They would not have your unique perspective to understand that Dean is not the real monster in the dark with them. But, my good friend, that does not mean you were not in danger. Or that Dean was not."

Will would much rather talk about Dean. Especially in front of Jack and Alana. "That's just it," he explained. "To their father, we aren't the monsters he's trying to protect his sons from. There's something worse out there, in his mind, and he's focused on that. But if that attention shifts, if he comes to see us as a monster that he needs to hunt, he will use whatever force necessary to remove his boys from our influence."

"So you think he might come to us," Jack said, for the first time sounding positive.

Will paused to think it through. Sometimes the words came so quickly it took him a moment to catch up with them. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I think that's most likely. The only question is when. If his delusions do not extend to us, which I do not believe they do at the moment, he might be content to leave Sam and Dean here for days. Possibly even months. He's clearly comfortable with leaving the boys on their own for large stretches of time. And he'll know that we will feed and clothe them. If he thinks he's hunting a bigger evil, leaving his sons behind might be acceptable. In his mind it will be only temporary, no matter how long that time period lasts."

"And if we join the monsters in his head?"

Will nodded grimly. "He'll come after whoever has his boys even more violently than anything else we've seen from him."

"Great," Jack exhaled loudly. "So we can't lock them up because they're children and they're 'delicate,' but you don't want me going to child services to arrange something."

Will shuddered. "No. Please, no."

"Well then, what's left?"

"I know some services," Alana offered hesitantly.

"Able to handle a psychopath with a machete and a shotgun?"

Her shoulders slumped as she wrapped her arms around herself. "No."

"You will want someone in law enforcement or with a law enforcement background," Hannibal suggested.

"Someone armed," Jack added.

"Preferably with enough experience with trauma victims to show the proper amount of empathy but also be aware of potential problems."

"A difficult task even for a train professional," Alana agreed. "But yes, someone with that kind of background would be best."

Hannibal smiled back. "Someone the boys might trust enough to feel safe with and maybe even provide us with more information on their father."

"Yes, exactly!" Jack agreed.

"Oh, no," Will added, eyes wide as he stared at what he thought was his friend. "You cannot be serious, Dr. Lecter."

Hannibal merely smiled back. "I would not have suggested the idea if I was not, Mr. Graham."

"Will?" Alana asked, as if hesitantly testing the idea out loud. And it didn't matter how terrible an idea this was, it sort of hurt to hear the doubt in her voice.

Hannibal was smiling with the kind of pride he usually reserved for when serving his own food. "I can think of no one better suited. Will is an agent, after all, and an experienced officer. He is fully capable of predicting and handling any changes in behavior, particularly any disorders. And the children are as fond of him as he is of them. I fully believe it would be best for everyone involved if Will were to take on this responsibility."

"This is a terrible idea," Will moaned.

"I don't think it would be very professional," Alana added.

"What?" Jack asked.

Hannibal smiled at all of them. "Yes, I am quite certain this is not only the only option available to us, but the best. Sam and Will share so many similarities. They would do well together. I will, of course, be at your disposal, Will, if you would care for the assistance."

"I can barely take care of myself," Will muttered.

Hannibal patted his arm. "I understand," he said. "I will clear as much of my schedule as I can to be on hand to help the three of you adjust."

"I didn't agree to this," Will replied.

" _I_ didn't agree to this!" Jack echoed.

Alana bit her lip. "It might be for the best, if you think so, Dr. Lecter. You'll be present in case anything goes wrong?"

"I'm not completely incompetent," Will grumbled even if it didn't help his argument.

"Children are every different than dogs, Will."

Not really, but that probably wasn't socially acceptable to say. Except if the look Hannibal was giving him was any indication, the other man knew exactly what he was thinking and found it humorous.

Jack threw his hands up. "Fine! But you're all responsible for this," he decreed before turning sharply and striding away. "And I want to know the moment one of them starts talking!" he called back over his shoulder.

"It's quiet a distance between Wolf Trap and your office," Alana was saying to Hannibal.

"I'm sure we can make it work," Hannibal told her. "I have no issue with spending a little time in Virginia." He glanced over at where Will was trying to melt into the ground and disappear. His smile shrank until it was something sharp and condensed and full of meaning. "I've been waiting for such an opportunity to spend more time with Will, so that we may understand one another more fully than before. It will be good for him."

This was not going to end well.


	8. Chapter 8

"This place is weird," Sam announced. It was a sentiment Dean could agree with. But Sam had his nose pressed to the glass in the back seat and was more interested in the buildings going by than how much deep shit the two of them were in.

Nothing had gone right today and Dean had no idea how to fix it.

The FBI had found them. One moment he and his dad were clearing rooms, looking for vamps, and the next the place was crawling with men in black body armor with rifles. Dad had sent him to the left before disappearing to the right, and that was the last Dean had seen of their father. But Dean had still had the shotgun and he had known what he was supposed to do. Get Sammy.

Except the feds had gotten to Sammy first. Or at least, a fed had. Will Graham. Who was sitting next to him in the driver seat of a very sad looking Volvo, driving Dean and Sam to his house to spend the night. Like this was some kind of sleepover. It was weird as fuck. But Sam was happy, and the rest of the feds had stopped asking them questions about Dad, and despite being a government lackey and sort of a mess, Will Graham didn't seem like too bad of a guy.

He'd sure as hell seemed willing to do whatever it took to protect Sam. And while he might not know jackshit about what monster really were, Dean had to respect anybody willing to go that far for Sammy.

And then there was whatever the hell Sam had seen out in that field.

Sam was six now, smart as fuck and asking way too many questions. Dean had managed for the most part to keep him distracted with TV and comics and even school work. But he could see what was coming. He and Dad were going to have to tell Sam the truth one day.

And it scared him really bad that Sam had seen something that Dean couldn't.

Dad wasn't here to ask, but Dean had been learning. He'd learned a lot about ghosts, but it didn't sound like one. There weren't a lot of other things out there that could be invisible like that. None of them were a good thing. Particularly for those who _could_ see them. If Mr. Graham could then that probably meant he needed their help. Dean wasn't Dad, but he could try his best.

He had to. 'Cause Sam could see it too and that meant he was in just as much danger.

But as much as Dean's head was spinning with possible monsters, and Sammy, and how he was going to manage this on his own without Dad and without even so much as a silver knife – the outside world was more than he could handle in addition to that.

Dean had let someone catch them, and not just anyone, but the freakin' FBI! Dad was going to kill him. Just as soon as Dean figured out how to get them out of this mess. Dean couldn't risk waiting for Dad to come find them. It was bad enough the FBI was already looking for him, Dean couldn't endanger him further by making him come to get them.

No matter how nice Mr. Graham seemed to be.

"I like it here," Mr. Graham replied in a voice that was hesitant. He kept his eyes focused on the road, but didn't seem to have a problem with Sam rolling around in the back seat. He'd made some noises about Sam putting on a seat belt when they had first gotten into the car, but he hadn't pressed for it the way other adults would. He seemed to get that Sam was way too energetic for something like that. The kid was bouncing back and forth from one window to another, asking a million questions. Mr. Graham answered each of them as best he could. He even craned his neck around when they were stopped at a light to help Sam identify things. It was kind of nice having someone else keep the brat entertained.

Mr. Graham was a quiet guy though. If Sam wasn't asking him questions, the guy mostly left them alone. Of course, he also looked like death warmed over. The guy must be getting over one hell of a cold. He was flushed and sweating even in the winter and Dean subtly turned up the heat in the car. The sweats sucked, but he ought to stay warm if he was sick.

"Why's it weird?" Mr. Graham finally asked as he turned down another street. That Dr. Lecter guy was following behind them in a car that just screamed money. The new cars were harder, but Dean was pretty sure he could jimmy the lock. He hadn't missed the way the Doc recommended Sam and Dean ride in Mr. Graham's car. He also couldn't really blame him. He was pretty sure he still had dust and cobwebs in his hair. At least Mr. Graham didn't seem to care.

And Sam was happy to chatter along with the man. He jumped on the new topic. Literally. He flopped forward to lean on the back of the driver's chair. Mr. Graham didn't even flinch but Dean gave his brother a look that promised words later. The young boy sighed and settled back just enough so he wasn't putting pressure on the seat but still had his face as close as he could get it.

"I thought you'd live in a big building," Sam began. They'd passed several since exiting the highway, including a rat's nest of traffic and overpasses and big glass stores. Dean was thrilled they hadn't turned that way. He'd been to a few big cities before. Monsters didn't always hide in the countryside, after all. But Dean was used to the open road and small town diners and motels that backed onto old farms or junk yards. Places where the local gossips might know all about you and your business two days after driving into town, but at least no one had security cameras, or cared what a couple of kids did after school as long as they weren't vandalizing anything or smoking pot.

This many people pressed in together sort of made Dean nervous. The traffic alone had him cringing in the passenger seat. He'd counted mile markers on the highway, and they were only on it about 30 miles. It had taken over an hour. They'd been cut off six times, one close enough that Dean had braced himself for impact. That was the only one Mr. Graham seemed to even notice, muttering under his breath even as he let on and off of the brakes to accommodate the person.

It was better now. They'd left the highway and the shopping area. A couple of turns and they were suddenly on a two lane road. It was still lined by houses, but the yards were massive and dotted with old trees. There was an honest to god four way stop. This felt more like what Dean was used to. Sure, the houses were all ridiculously big and nice, with fancy lawns and yuppie decorations, but at least there was some elbow room. While Sam might have been excited by the idea of a high rise, Dean was okay with this.

"I like my space," Mr. Graham explained. They drove over an overpass bridge, and for a moment Dean could see below another highway, ten lanes across with rail tracks in the middle and packed to the gills with cars. But then they were over and back into the trees.

Mr. Graham's eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror to check on Sam, and Dean couldn't blame him. Sam had slumped back in his seat once they'd left the crowded streets. A quiet Sam was never a good thing. "This used to be farm land," Mr. Graham told them. "But it's become a popular area. That mall was Tysons. And there's a local outdoor theater that's packed in the summer. It makes traffic a nightmare. But it's one of the few places left near D.C. that has space."

"Big houses," Dean commented as they passed another brick monstrosity. It was set back from the road, but the garage alone was bigger than some of the more modest neighbors.

Mr. Graham snorted. "New builds. You'll find a lot of them around here. Sometimes they tear down the old farm houses for those. That's how I got my house. It was still farmland when the last owner died and the house was in rough shape. But it has good bones and just needed a little work." He paused. "A lot of work. The upstairs is still a bit rough but it'll be fine. Anyway. I was willing to pay more for it in the shape it was in than a developer was willing to invest in it for a future build site."

Dean wanted to tell him anything was fine. He was certain they had slept in worse places. But adults didn't like to hear that. After the overpass, the road started to twist and turn the way only old roads did. Probably following property lines or a stream that didn't exist anymore. Then they were slowing to a crawl to turn off of the cement and onto a gravel driveway almost hidden behind tall trees. Once passed them and the small ditch that lined the road, the land opened up into a wide field with nothing but an old white house sitting in it.

It looked like most other old farms that were no longer in use. Everything seemed flat and wide because somebody had spent a hell of a lot of time removing ever tree and bush. Having helped his dad dig a few holes, Dean had an idea of just how hard that was.

The house looked nice. Maybe a bit small, but it had a big porch. One that didn't look like it was going to collapse. The siding had been painted recently and the main floor was full of big windows. Most of the old houses Dean saw only had a few windows. Which was good, 'cause they were drafty as hell. Winters must not be as cold here, or else the place must be freezing with that much glass. But if Mr. Graham was the kind of guy to go to all this trouble for a house, he probably didn't have to worry about heating bills. Sitting so far back from the road, with plenty of trees surrounding the edges of the property, it did kind of feel like the middle of nowhere.

Dean could see the appeal. Sure, you could probably yell bloody murder out here and no one would hear you and come to help, but hey, that also meant you could do things like target practice without the neighbors losing their shit. Set up a few good flood lights hooked up to motion sensors and you could see half an acre in every direction.

"Quiet back here," Dean commented.

"That's the idea," Mr. Graham agreed.

Sam leaned over his shoulder again despite the look Dean gave him. "That your house?"

"Yes."

Sam studied it for a moment as they bumbled their way down the drive. "And you have dogs?"

Mr. Graham was smiling now. He didn't do that often but it wasn't a bad look on him. "Yes," he said. "Seven."

Damn, the man liked dogs. Dean was already dreading this, but Sammy was so fucking excited he was about ready to bounce out of his seat. There was a sharp intake of air behind them when he heard the number. "Seven?" he asked breathlessly.

"Oh, lord," Dean muttered. He wanted to be annoyed. He was, really. Dogs were a nuisance at best and a down right menace more often than not. But it was hard to keep a straight face when the kid got going like that. "He's going to be trouble now," he told Mr. Graham. "Why'd you have to have so many dogs?"

Will laughed, a sharp huff of air. "We'll manage. I promise none of my dogs will bite you."

Dean flushed and kept his head turned away. He wasn't worried about that. Not really. He had bigger things to focus on. Plus he didn't think Mr. Graham was the type to have dogs like Bowser. But it was good to know.

"Bowser wasn't very nice," Sam admitted. "He tried to bite me too but Dean chased him off. But your dogs are nice, right Mr. Will?"

"Very nice. But please don't pull their ears or tails or try to scare them. Some of them had a rough time before coming here."

"I'll be careful," Sam promised solemnly. And for a six year old, Sammy was pretty good at keeping his promises.

Still, Dean wasn't entirely convinced. He shifted around in his seat so he could watch Mr. Graham closely. "Dog fights?" he asked. If Sammy was going to be rolling around with the mutts then Dean wanted to know more about them. He'd seen enough wild dogs and fighting dogs to know there wasn't a whole lot of difference between them and a wild animal. In fact, they were almost worse. A wolf wouldn't let you get close enough to bite if they could help it. A broken dog could wait until you were petting it or feeding it to decide you were a problem best solved by losing a chuck of skin.

"No, nothing like that," Mr. Graham assured him. "Nothing specifically aggressive." He wasn't offended by the question, which was nice. Dean wasn't trying to start a fight. Mr. Graham seemed to understand it was a legit question, which made Dean feel even better.

"Okay then."

As soon as he had the car parked, Sam was out and running across the field. Dean leaned against the car while they waited politely for Dr. Lecter to park as well. He watched his brother play and tried to relax his shoulders. The kid was getting bigger every day and it was getting harder to keep him cooped up and entertained in a car. Dad had joked once about making Dean and Sam go running every morning for PT. Watching the shrimp eat up ground like it was nothing had Dean thinking maybe it wasn't so bad an idea. Useful at least.

Sam knew better than to go too far and it wasn't long before he was looping back towards the porch. He hesitated at the base of the stairs, his feet shifting restlessly as he tilted his head back and forth to take in everything.

There was barking coming from the house. A lot of it. Dean grimaced but made himself wander over. He could see a pair of ears bouncing up and down in one of the windows. One of them was howling like a freakin' werewolf or something and it made the hair on the back of Dean's next stand up. Contrasted to that, the sharp yipping bark coming from a different corner sounded like some kind of rat being killed.

Once Hannibal was parked, he and Mr. Graham came to join them. Sam turned to the doctor. "Did you know Mr. Will has seven dogs?" he asked.

Hannibal nodded gravely. "He does have a talent for finding strays. I feed his dogs when he is otherwise unavailable."

Will snorted but led the way onto the porch. "You spoil them rotten, don't think I don't notice."

Hannibal gestured for them to precede him. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets and moved forward slowly. The windows were huge and not a single one of them had curtains. Guess when you lived this far away from other folks you didn't need to hide behind the blinds. Still, it would make Dean uncomfortable as fuck at night. Way too exposed.

Dr. Lecter was a tall guy and had a way of looming over people without even trying. It had Dean shifting further way. The man was watching Mr. Graham, however. "I am glad my efforts have been recognized. Now if only you would permit me the pleasure of feeding you as well."

Right. So these guys were close friends. Or at least Dr. Lecter wanted to be. Mr. Graham kind of looked like he wanted to curl into a ball and disappear but Dean was starting to get the impression that that was normal for the guy. He didn't seem to have any particular objection to Lecter at least and sounded more embarrassed than offended when he answered. "I can manage on my own."

"Dear Will, there is a vast difference between managing and savoring."

Lecter had a way of saying things that made them sound way more profound and shit than a normal person could. Maybe they taught that in head doctor school. But the guy had a point. Mr. Graham looked like he'd had a rough couple of weeks, and here he was wasting his time on Dean and Sam. He probably needed a friend like Lecter looking out for him. And Dean ought to pull his weight too.

"I can cook," he announced and then flushed bright red like an idiot. He could cook, just as long as it was simple stuff. He knew how to fix things too. And how to do yard work. Usually it was so he could take care of Sam or earn a little extra money on the side, but he wouldn't mind helping out with stuff like that for Mr. Graham. The guy was opening his home to them so that they didn't end up in some state run shit. Or even worse, split up.

Mr. Graham paused, his key still in the door and the dogs going nuts on the other side. He was staring at Dean again but Dean kept his eyes down. He wasn't stupid. Dr. Lecter and that lady might be the soft talking shrinks, and the bossy FBI guy the muscle, but Mr. Graham was the really dangerous one out of the bunch. If anyone was going to figure out what was really going on it was going to be him. While it was annoying as fuck trying to help people when they were too stupid to understand monsters were real, Dean was also very aware of how much better it was for people to not know. Mr. Graham already had it rough. No sense adding to that. It was better if he just thought Dad was crazy or something. It'd make it harder for him to catch Dad and it would probably keep Mr. Graham safer.

Still nobody said anything and Dean wanted to take the words back. It was as stupid thing to say. Lecter was staring at him like he'd suggested they make mud pies or something. Hell, that's probably exactly what he thought Dean was suggesting. There was nothing about Dean that suggested he'd be much good at anything other than getting picked up by the cops.

But Hannibal seemed to be giving it some thought. "In that case," he replied slowly. "I hope I might have the opportunity to cook one day with you – and with your brother. I believe I could show you some recipes that might interest you"

And damn if that blush didn't get worse. He hadn't meant for the guy to offer to teach him something. It was supposed to be Dean helping out, not the other way around.

But Mr. Graham was smiling about the whole thing and when Lecter saw that, his face took on a really pleased expression. Almost smug. The kind of thing that on Dean would be called a shit-eatin'-grin.

Oh. So that's how it was. Lecter liked Mr. Graham, and Mr. Graham, for whatever reason, liked Dean and Sam, so Lecter was being nice to them. That was something Dean could wrap his head around.

Mr. Graham cleared his throat and stepped to the side of the door. He gestured for Dean to scoot back down the side of the porch even farther. "Might want to stand clear of the stairs," he explained. "They're pretty worked up." Hannibal also stepped back a safe distance, but Sam jumped down to the ground, ready to run and play.

Christ, there were a lot of them. They all came boiling out of the door, tripping over each other and barking the whole way. Most of them made a break for the stairs and the grass beyond it. Sammy was waiting for them there, arms spread out and grinning for all he was worth. The big ones went straight for him and Dean had to rein in the impulse to jump down and pull them back. But Mr. Graham was right, they weren't too bad. Mostly it was noses getting stuck places and slobbery tongues. Sam seemed to think it was the greatest thing ever. He squealed in delight and made it a point to pet each one on the head. Which would have worked out better if the dogs weren't so focused on bumping into him and thwapping him with their tails.

Dean grimaced but stayed where he was. Right up until something brushed against his knee. Then he about jumped out of his skin backing up. He hadn't even noticed the brown one sneaking up on him like that. The mutts were all supposed to be out in the yard playing with Sam.

Mr. Graham made a clucking noise and the dog turned its head to look at him. "That's Winston," he informed Dean. "He's very gentle."

"Right," Dean answered, staring down at it, waiting for it to move. The dog just stared back. "Okay," Dean added, but it still didn't move.

Lecter was grinning at him, the bastard. "It appears he likes you, Dean."

"Great," Dean muttered. He wanted to shift further back, but he wasn't going to run away. There was a thump from out in the yard and Dean's head snapped up to check. Sammy was on the ground now, most of the dogs trying to climb on top of him or lick him. But the kid was still laughing so he must be okay.

Mr. Graham stepped closer and patted the dog's butt. "You could try petting him," he suggested. "Winston has a bit of retriever in him. They're very loyal. Good companion dogs."

"Okay," Dean agreed. He kept his hands in his pockets. He didn't care how nice the dog was. Dogs didn't like him and he didn't want to lose a finger.

"The dog will not hurt you, Dean," Lecter announced as if Dean wanted him airing out his business like that. "Will would not allow it."

Dean kind of wanted to point out that Mr. Graham probably had bigger problems than a dog biting his guest. But he couldn't exactly explain to the doctor that some kind of evil spirit monster thing was likely stalking his friend. For some reason, people didn't take kindly to that.

Mr. Graham sighed. "Come on, let's get you settled. Sam can keep the dogs busy for now."

Dean nodded and followed the man in. Lecter trailed along behind them like a shadow. The first room of the house was huge, especially for the style. It was also clearly where Mr. Graham did all of his living. There was a work table, a bed and way more dog blankets, pillows and cushions than a few animals could really need. All the basics for Mr. Graham.

The man dropped his bag by the door then stood awkwardly by his bed. "I wasn't expecting company," he muttered.

Dean tried not to look too curious. The place was clean and organized despite all the stuff in one room. Even the dog beds didn't smell. Dean shrugged when no one said anything. "We've stayed in places a lot worse. It's clean and warm." Mr. Graham grimaced and Dean wondered what he said wrong. He was trying to be polite. "Sam and I don't need much. Don't worry about us. We're just – " he broke off. "Thanks. For letting us stay," he muttered staring at the carpet and trying to ignore the way Lecter hovered behind him. Seriously. The guy had to learn not to lurk.

Mr. Graham sighed and Dean tried not to flinch again. "Not worrying about you would be difficult," he said. "But I understand what you mean. How about you help me get the upstairs squared away? I haven't been up there much since I finished the repairs. It's going to need an airing out and probably dusting. We'll need to find some blankets too."

"Sam and I can share a room," Dean was quick to suggest. "So, you know, one room's more than enough." And it was going to be a hell of a lot easier to protect only one room.

Mr. Graham stared at him for a moment then nodded. "Okay. That would probably be for the best."

Mr. Graham led him upstairs and thankfully Lecter stayed where he was. Mr. Graham hadn't been lying, the upstairs smelt like moth balls. Everything was clean and orderly like the downstairs but there was none of the stuff. The walls were all smooth plaster, painted a light blue, and the floors had been sanded down sometime recently. He could still smell it faintly in the air. But there were no decorations, no paintings or books or other crap that other people tended to collect.

There were only two small rooms up there, both likely intended to be bedrooms but only one had an actual bed. The other was filled with boxes, the kinds they used in police stations to store stuff in. There was a saggy puke brown couch pushed up against one wall, but it had a bunch of picture frames with what looked like awards and certificates or something stacked on it. It kind of looked like Mr. Graham moved in, unpacked the downstairs and just kind of stopped. Even the furniture up here was basic and old and probably came with the house. The bed was small and was going to be a tight fit for the two of them, but Dean was fine with that and Mr. Graham didn't comment. He just handed him some linens and went to open the window.

"I've got a space heater I can bring up for you boys," he said.

Dean didn't look up from tucking in tight corners. "We'll be fine."

"No sense being cold." He paused. "You do know Sam's going to want the dogs to sleep up here."

Dean's hands hesitated. No, he hadn't thought about that.

"They won't," Mr. Graham continued. "They're used to downstairs. And even if they started out up here, they'd want to move downstairs halfway through the night.'

Dean huffed out a sigh. He wanted to pawn the problem off on someone else, but he was lucky Sammy wasn't being a little shit about all this as it was. The kid sure as hell didn't understand what was going on. It was only a matter of time before he threw a fit at Dad being gone again. Or worse, got freaked out by the whole thing. If the damn dogs would help, Dean could put up with them. "I'll let them out when they wanna go," he promised.

Mr. Graham watched him till he finished making the bed. "I think it would be better if I told him no. For everyone," he said. Then he started talking like a teacher, telling Dean where the bathroom was, what to do if something was wrong, and warning them not to climb out onto the porch roof. "Your door has a lock," he informed him, as if it were just another piece of information. "There's an old skeleton key for it somewhere, but it'd take a while to find it. So be careful not to lock yourself out, okay?"

Dean ducked his head and agreed. It didn't take a genius to figure out why Mr. Graham was telling him. He knew damn well Dean was barricading him and his brother in this room at night. Dean almost wanted to ask him for some salt. Mr. Graham would probably let him have some, but he'd be curious. Better to sneak it in later when the man wasn't looking. It was just a shame there were so many blasted windows downstairs or he'd line there too.

Mr. Graham paused in the doorway, his back to Dean and his voice quiet enough not to carry. "You're a good person, Dean. The way you take care of your brother – it says a lot about you. I hope something good for you comes out of all this."

Dean was embarrassed and annoyed at himself for being embarrassed. He wanted to say something stupid, but Mr. Graham was a nice guy and all soft spoken and manners and didn't deserve Dean's shit. He wanted to ask him about the stag. If he could figure out what it was, maybe Dean could get rid of it. If he could get Sam and himself out of this mess and complete a hunt at the same time, Dad would be impressed.

"You too, Mr. Graham," Dean muttered.

The man laughed and turned around. He leaned in the doorway, his arms crossed loosely over his chest and a hint of a smile on his face. "Will's fine. And I appreciate your concern. I know you mean it. But the problems I have aren't ones you can fix. And you shouldn't feel it's your job to try, Dean."

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes and threw back his shoulders so he looked bigger and more badass. "Whatever, Will," he drawled out. "I know what I'm doing."

Will met his eyes and hummed quietly. "I sincerely hope not. I know about monsters, Dean. They might not be the same ones your father 'knows' but they're bad enough. The world doesn't need more than that. And neither do you." He looked away abruptly and turned to leave. "Come on. Let's see if I have anything in my fridge that meets with Hannibal's standards. I ought to feed you boys."

Dean hesitated a moment before hurrying to follow him down the hall and stairs. "Got any mac and cheese? I can do great things with mac and cheese."

"Heaven help us all," Lecter announced from below. Dean blushed again and cursed the man's superpower hearing. Creepy lurker.

There was nothin' wrong with mac and cheese, damn it.


	9. Chapter 9

"Okay, maybe that's better than mac and cheese," Dean admitted after his third helping. It was still just pasta, but Lecter had made some magic concoction of milk and other crap and it was delicious. Dean kind of wanted to lick the bowl. Even fussy eater Sam seemed happy, though he was still trying to sneak bits of toasted bread to the dogs. Will's kitchen table was small and kind of wobbly so it wasn't providing much coverage for being sneaky. But Will didn't seem to care and Lecter hadn't said anything despite the somewhat pained look on his face.

Lecter had taken over Will's kitchen as soon as Will had mentioned dinner. He hadn't seem to mind the fish cleaning gear that had been left on the counter, but insisted on wiping down all the surfaces once Will had removed it. He had explained that wood counters could be very convenient, but that they soaked up flavors and scents far too easily. When Dean had hovered in the doorway, unsure if he'd be welcome but feeling like a putz for doing nothing, Lecter had set him to work cleaning vegetables.

"Does your father cook?" Lecter had asked him as he stirred something vigorously.

Dean had shrugged. "Not really?" He didn't want to talk about his dad, but it wasn't like he had anything else he could talk about with a guy like Lecter. "We get pizza when he's home. Or find a place to go. Sammy's still small enough they sometimes let him eat for free."

"So you cook for your brother then."

Dean had shrugged, feeling uncomfortable and not entirely sure why.

"Then come here and pay attention," Lecter had announced before explaining out loud what he was doing.

Dean was pretty sure he could repeat it but he wasn't as confident it would come out as good. Plus it'd be hard when they were on the road to get half the stuff Lecter had used. Dean eyed his empty plate and the bit of leftovers still on the platter in the middle of the table. But he was gonna burst if he tried to eat more.

Will's plate still had a bit of toast on it, but he'd eaten all of his noodles as well. He looked better having eaten and was leaning back in his chair, sipping from a mug of coffee that he'd snuck some whiskey in when he'd thought no one was watching. Dean knew that smell though, and hoped the stuff helped the guy feel better.

The small kitchen was a bit tight for the four of them, but it was kind of nice to sit at a table with other people. Sammy hadn't been too embarrassing, though Lecter had stopped at one point to show the kid how to properly hold his fork. Something about American versus Continental or something like that. It was weird, but whatever. Dean had shifted his own grip to mimic what Lecter had shown Sam and it wasn't too bad.

"Why don't you and Sam take the dogs into the living room?" Will suggested. The mutts hadn't been too annoying. Lecter had directed them out of the cooking area as soon as he stepped foot in it, and they'd obeyed without any trouble. Once the table had been set, each one of them had sat down and waited. It was creepy having them stare at you while you ate, but at least they left Dean alone and focused most of their attention on Sammy and his slippery fingers.

Dean sighed but stood up. He suspected this wasn't for their benefit. Adults didn't like to talk in front of kids for some reason. They always looked at him weird when Dean trailed behind his father on a hunt, like there was some secret code that prevented them from talking about real stuff in front of him. As if he didn't already know more about the real world than they probably did. There was no point fighting it, however. So Dean gathered up his plate and Sammy's and edged around the crowded kitchen to put them in the sink. While everyone one else was busy sorting themselves out, Dean snagged the salt shaker off the kitchen counter and dropped it into his deepest pocket. There wasn't much in the thing, but some was better than none.

He didn't have to round up Sam. The kid was having too much fun herding the group of dogs into the living room. The yappy one kept getting under foot and the big one, that looked like it could have been mean in another life that didn't involve squeaky toys and biscuits, kept bumping into Sam and setting off a peel of laughter.

Seriously. It was a bunch of annoying mutts. What had Sam so thrilled?

But Dean followed. He walked far enough into the room to snag a book of the table. Something about trees, then back tracked to take up a position by the door to the kitchen. Will had closed it after them, but it was the original thin wooden one that rattled in place and didn't do shit to block out noise. Really. Dean didn't know why he bothered. The voices were quiet, but even with the dogs yapping occasionally in this room and the clink of washing plates in the other, Dean could still make out what was said.

"Thank you," Will said. "For working with Dean."

"Please think nothing of it," Lecter replied in that snooty voice of his. "It is best to keep a young mind like his occupied."

There was a snort. "Idle hands are the devil's tools?"

Lecter was bit slow to respond but his voice sounded amused. "Something like that."

"He's a good kid," Will repeated and Dean about near jerked back. It was bad enough having the guy say sappy things like that to Dean. He didn't need to go tellin' other people the same nonsense. Geez. Just when he thought Will couldn't be more of a putz. He really needed someone to help him out.

Lecter's agreement was slow in coming and all the humor was gone from his tone of voice. "Yes. But we cannot ignore the fact that he may also be a killer. What will you do then?"

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fucking fuck. They knew. They had to. Crap. Why the hell didn't they have Dean in cuffs already? He was really in deep shit now and had to figure out how to get him and Sam out of here fast before someone wised up that keeping them here like some kind of little kid sleep over was a bad idea.

And what the hell was Mr. Graham doing letting them stay here if he knew? No wonder the guy had some evil deer haunting him. He had the self-preservation instincts of a lemming.

"Nothing," Will answered immediately, louder than he had been. "Nothing different than what I am already doing, anyway. He's not a monster, Hannibal. He's a boy. He's not broken yet."

"Not another lost boy?"

"No," Will answered firmly, whatever the hell they meant by lost boy. Dean wasn't lost. He'd been abducted by the freakin' FBI to northern Virginia, land of government spooks and yuppies. Will continued speaking. "No, Sam keeps him from getting lost."

"Yes, Sam. A bright boy, very precocious for his age."

If Lecter only knew. Sam was a freakin' genius. Dean knew that. He was having a hard enough of time now keeping the kid busy. He didn't know what he was going to do when Sammy got older.

Will laughed. "Why does that always sound like a euphemism for trouble maker?"

"I do not know, Will, was the same thing often said about you?"

"Yes. That and more."

"There is a great deal of similarity between you and Sam," Lecter pointed out and Dean frowned. He hadn't thought about that. Will was just the kind of person Sam tended to like, bookish, soft spoken and dog loving. It didn't take much to impress the kid.

This time Will's laugh sounded more choked off and harsh. "God, I hope not," he said. That had Dean frowning even more. And as much as Lecter could be kind of prissy sometimes, Dean was pleased to hear him come quickly to his friend's defense.

"Do not be so quick to dismiss yourself, my friend," the man said firmly. "You are a talented man capable of great things, with a little guidance. I believe Sam is the same. I would very much like to see what he could become given the right environment."

"They both need the right environment," Will agreed. There was a pause and the sound of movement in the kitchen stopped. "You haven't given up on Dean already, have you?"

Really. Did Will have to ask questions like that? It made Dean sound like an afterschool special on hurt kids.

And Lecter took just a bit too long responding to that one. "No, of course not, Will. I am merely being cautious. Though I believe you are correct. With Sam as a focus, Dean could be guided properly." They must have started moving again, because Dean could hear the refrigerator opening. "Did you notice the salt?" Lecter asked in a mild voice.

Shit. Dean's hand flew down to check that it was still in his pocket. Should he try hiding it? They couldn't prove he'd taken it if it wasn't on him. If they found it before he could take it back he could say a ghost moved it. Haha, and all that shit.

But Will's voice was mild and unconcerned. "Yes, of course. Any theories?"

"Kleptomania cannot be ruled out." It took Dean a moment to remember that kleptomania was just a fancy word for thief. It wasn't the first time he'd been accused of that. Defiantly wasn't the first time he was guilty of that. "Given his history, it would not be unreasonable for him to act out in such a manner."

"I don't think the salt was random. Do you?'

"No, no, I do not." That did not sound good. Lecter was a smart dude and Dean didn't like him paying so much attention to what Dean was doing. And fuck if the man didn't continue. "Are you aware, Will, that in some cultures salt is believed to have purifying aspects? And that it can serve as a protection against evil."

So maybe Lecter knew some good stuff. Wouldn't do him much help if he didn't believe in it, but it was better than the average person. Maybe Dean could claim religious practices. That what people did, right, when they were different? Dean sure as hell believed in salt and ghosts, and the frequent and liberal forced combination of the two.

"That would fit," Will agreed. He still didn't sound too upset and Dean started to feel good about his chances of keeping the small shaker. Hell, maybe he could even convince the man to let him have more and possibly even into laying lines downstairs as well as up. It wasn't like a little salt hurt anyone who was living.

There was another one of those long pauses that had Dean thinking the two of them must just be staring at each other. Except Will didn't like to look people in the eye, so it was more likely he was looking at something else and Lecter was the only one staring. "Hannibal, I should tell you," Will started suddenly, his voice no longer as smooth and sure. "In the field, when Dean found us – " he broke off for some reason and Dean started to feel nervous. "Yes, Dean found Sam and I, not the other way around. He was determined to take his brother and leave," Will told him like he thought Lecter would understand what that meant.

And crap but Dean was trying not to think about that. He'd never shot a person before. Not a real person. And Will had been willing to let him if that's what it took to protect Sam. Dean had been shaking like a leaf and so fucking scared he was going to be doing the wrong thing no matter what he did. God he hoped Lecter didn't figure that part out.

"You convinced him otherwise."

"No. Hannibal – Sam saw something. Something that wasn't real ," Will stressed and oh fuck why was he telling Lecter that? Lecter wasn't going to believe them. Hell, Will didn't believe them and he was the one seeing the damned thing. "And Dean didn't question it," Will continued, his voice speeding up even as it grew more firm. Dean was starting to recognize it as his teacher voice, the one he used when he was trying to explain something basic to the idiots around him who couldn't see what was in front of them. "He accepted it as a threat and responded. But Hannibal, his first reaction was to protect me from it as well. That's not a monster in the making. That's a guardian, someone's protector."

If Dean was any kind of protector, they wouldn't be in this mess. But he was happy Will at least understood that Dean was trying to help. Most people didn't.

Like Lecter. "That he perceives something as threatening you and Sam may cause you both more harm than good." And okay, that kind of stung, especially 'cause it might be true. Dad saved a lot of people, but a lot of other people just ended up dead. And Dean really didn't want that to happen to Will. So he couldn't blame Lecter for being worried about his friend, even if he wasn't likely to agree with Lecter's suggestions on how to fix things. "I am very worried about this, Will," Lecter continued, his voice firm and insistent. "I do not like the idea of you being alone in this house. Perhaps I should remain here, to assist."

"I couldn't ask you to," Will sputtered. He sounded embarrassed.

"You did not. I offered," Lecter replied in a warm tone of voice that made it sound like it was silly to be embarrassed. "As your friend, Will, I believe it would be best if I stayed nearby. After all, I am the one to guard you from any monsters, physical or metaphysical."

And wow that kind of sounded like a line. Like, Dean was going to have to remember that one. He could probably get a date with that. And ew, no, not thinking about old men going on dates with each other.

All Will said in response was "Okay."


	10. Chapter 10

Dean stayed away from Lecter the rest of the evening. The guy was focused on Will and Sam, so it wasn't hard to stay under his radar. Things got hella awkward when it was time to go to bed. Will kept making noises about him sleeping on the couch upstairs and letting Lecter have his bed. Or putting the boys downstairs, giving Lecter the bed upstairs and him sleeping on the couch. Sam volunteered to sleep downstairs with the dogs, but Dean vetoed that right away. No way in hell was he sleeping upstairs and leaving Sam down here.

Lecter, meanwhile, just smiled through it all and assured Will that everything would sort itself out before offering him some more whiskey. Dean was tempted to ask for some but he doubted the answer would be yes. Even Dad only let him have some when it had been a shitty day, and while today had been a spectacularly shitty day, he didn't think that reasoning would work.

As soon as Sam started to slow down, Dean seized his chance and suggested they go to bed. It was early yet, but he'd only gotten a few hours last night before the hunt. Will insisted on walking them up, and asking over and over again if they needed anything. Sam was half passed out in the bed in a t-shirt and his undies. Dean planned on sleeping in his jeans in case something happened but there was no reason for the both of them to be uncomfortable. Mostly he just wanted Will to leave so he could lay down some salt lines and feel a bit safer. While he suspected Will knew what he was going to use the salt for, he didn't have to make a show out of it.

With one last look, and a promise to return if they needed anything or had a nightmare, Will shut the door softly and Dean could hear him padding down the hallway and stairs.

"I'm not a little kid," he muttered at the shut door. Sammy was pretty good about not having nightmares and Dean had learned how to keep still when he woke up from one so as not to disturb his brother. Knowing Sam, he'd want to know what kind of nightmare it was and Dean was so not going there.

He checked the corners, checked under the bed and the closets. Pulled open every drawer or box and checked inside it. Nothing fishy. There was just enough salt in the shaker that he was able to cover both the door and the window if he kept his hand real steady.

"Don't mess 'em up," he told Sammy.

The boy grunted back. He'd woken up a bit during Dean's routine checks. He had most of the blanket wrapped around him, with only a head of tousled hair sticking out of the top. "I like it here," he announced. He knew to keep his voice quiet in an old house like this.

Dean scowled. "We're leaving as soon as I figure out how."

Sam sat up a little straighter and Dean groaned out loud. Lord, here they went. Sam had that mulish look on his face. "Why?"

And God did Dean wanna kill the man who came up with that word. "'Cause, this isn't our home."

"We don't have one," Sam muttered and Dean wanted to shake him.

"Yes, we do. It's the Impala with Dad."

"Can't we just wait here for a while? Till Dad comes to get us? Like we do with Uncle Bobby's?"

"Will's not Uncle Bobby."

"He could be. Like Uncle Bobby, I mean. He's nice, and he has dogs and a big yard we can play in. And he doesn't think we're weird."

Dean frowned but climbed into bed alongside his brother. Sam was smart enough to understand their family wasn't exactly normal. "Yes, he does."

"No, he doesn't," Sam answered back, not missing a beat.

Dean sighed. "Alright, stupid, what makes you say that?"

Sam thought for a moment. "He just doesn't look at us the way other people do. And he wanted to help us when there were monsters."

Well, shit. How to argue with that? Yeah, Will kind of sort of treated them pretty normal for a fed who thought their dad was a crazy killer. And Dean couldn't tell Sammy that monsters weren't real. Life would be a hell of a lot easier if he could lie to Sammy like that. "Will thought Dad was the monster," Dean finally admitted.

Sam scowled. "The deer?"

Crap. "No, Sammy, not the deer," he told him before taking a deep breath and hoping for the best. "Sam, these cops think Dad did something really bad. He didn't. Dad's a hero. But they don't get that. They think he's a monster and that's why they took us away from him."

Sammy shivered and Dean pulled him closer. "Dad's gonna come get us, right?" he asked so quietly Dean barely heard him.

"Definitely," Dean promised. "If we don't go to him first. But that's why we can't stay here long. It's okay for now," he reassured him. "Will's an okay guy for a fed – "

"You just don't like him 'cause he's a teacher," Sam mumbled, the smart ass.

"But this is just for a little while," Dean continued, pretending not to hear.

Sam was quiet and Dean started to hope he might just go to sleep. "But it's okay to like it here?" Sammy finally asked. "To like Mr. Will?"

"Yes, Sam, it's okay. And not just because of the dogs. He seems like an okay guy."

"Dean? You won't let the evil deer hurt Mr. Will, will you?"

Dean closed his eyes and tried to think, think, think, what Dad might have said about an evil deer spirit. "No, Sam, I'm not going to let it hurt him." Somehow.

* * *

Hannibal was sitting by the empty fireplace, a glass of whiskey in one hand and Bernie sitting at his feet. The tableau was a modern update on the traditional portrait of a European gentleman with his favorite hound. Will wondered once more how far off that comparison was. He didn't have a lot of experience profiling old European families, but there was a definite air to Hannibal that spoke of old money and the quiet confidence that came with it.

Hannibal's head turned as Will descended the last step. He didn't smile, but there was something direct and personal about his gaze that had Will looking away and forgetting what he had been thinking about. "Are the children tucked safely in their beds?" Hannibal asked, his voice a soft rumble.

"What?" Will replied, startled by the question. He should have expected it, even lost in his own head. It was a reasonable question. But the setting and tone and emotion added up to something strange and confusing. "Oh, yes. They're fine. I think Sam was already asleep before I left the room. Dean wasn't far behind." As much as it made him want to smile, there were always the shadows that followed the two boys. "Dean was waiting for me to leave," he announced.

Hannibal nodded. He gestured for Will to sit across from him. It should have been awkward, Hannibal playing host in Will's house, but it fit them. Will would have stayed hovering in the doorway, uncertain and slightly off balance without Hannibal's guidance. Instead he fetched his own glass and curled up in the comfort of his old chair. The room was smaller than Hannibal's office, the chairs not quiet facing each other, but closer together and his pack was spread out around them.

Hannibal waited until Will was settled and comfortable before continuing. "Given his state of hyper awareness and the violence that has characterized his life, it is to be expected that Dean would feel uncomfortable in a new environment and wish to take control of it."

Will nodded. "The salt plays into that," he added. He enjoyed building profiles together with Hannibal. It didn't leave him feeling as alone in the dark.

"Yes, undoubtedly. Nearly all of Dean's actions are motivated by a need to ensure his safety and that of his brother. He is, very much, a survivor." Coming from Hannibal, there were few words of such high praise.

Will smiled into his drink. "Yes," he agreed. He wasn't oblivious to the tension between Dean and Hannibal. Dean was far too independent and suspicious of 'official' adults to feel comfortable around the doctor, while Dean's aggressively defensive behavior bordered on rude by Hannibal's standards. But he also hadn't missed the way Hannibal had included Dean in his preparations, finding a clear task for the boy to accomplish.

Hannibal nodded as if he could tell where Will's thoughts had gone. He stared at the empty fire place for a moment, giving Will the chance to study him unobserved. "I can understand Dean's drive to protect his brother," Hannibal announced and Will felt a shiver work its way down his spine. There was something fierce about Hannibal in that moment and Will wondered what it would be like to inspire such fervor. A part of him wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end, what lengths would he go to. "Sam is a remarkable boy," Hannibal continued.

The sudden switch from fierce to gentle left Will reeling a little. It didn't feel natural to Will, but he tried to keep up. "Do you think he will recover from this?" he asked. He knew what he thought, but he didn't have Hannibal's expertise and knowledge.

"I think he will do splendidly," Hannibal assured him, without a doubt in his voice. His confidence made something in Will relax. Hannibal smiled at him. "Sam has an awareness of things around him that is unusual," he explained. "It should be encouraged and developed."

Will smiled back but his was a bit more strained and sardonic. "Funny, it's the things about Sam that are so normal that I find myself liking the most."

"Such as his fondness for dogs?"

Will laughed happily. Hannibal wasn't as fond of his dogs as he and Sam were, but he appreciated them in his own way. "Yes," he agreed.

Hannibal was now smiling at him. It was surprisingly nice. Normal. Will held his gaze for one long moment before letting his eyes drift naturally away. "I believe Sam would do very well long term under your guidance," Hannibal told him, his voice once more warm and almost vibrating behind Will's chest bone.

Except the words were ridiculous. Will's eyes widened before jerking his head around to stare at his friend and this madness that had suddenly come over him. "Long term? As in permanently? You're not serious."

"Very much so."

Will did not know what to do with that. "Why on earth would you think that?" Hannibal was supposed to be the logical one. The one that kept him grounded in reality and reasonable expectations. If he was this far adrift then the two of them were in serious trouble.

Hannibal stared back at him steady and timeless. "Why would I not?" he answered. Affirmed. In the way only someone as self-controlled and proficient as he was could. But then Hannibal glanced away, his chin tilting downward slightly and a small smile on his face that was different than the ones Will had seen before. "I confess," he said slowly. "My reasoning may be somewhat influenced."

Will stared at him in surprise, trying to figure out where the conversation was going. Usually he was better at predicting people but Hannibal had always been somewhat of a blind spot. "Influenced by what?"

"A desire to see you happy," Hannibal stated bluntly. He looked up suddenly and Will couldn't look away. He had to know, had to see. "Sam could be very good for you," Hannibal continued, his voice growing more impassioned as he went. "And you could be very good for him. I would very much like to see what both of you could be together."

There was longing there, and determination, and something that had been growing in his friend for some time but something he had kept hidden from him. "Hannibal," he said softly. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear more. He wasn't sure if he could bare it if he was reading this wrong.

"My apologies," Hannibal said as he suddenly pulled back and sat up straight. His glass was set aside, his hands folded in his lap as he faced Will with his complete attention. "My behavior is inappropriate. I am having more difficulty with maintaining my distance when presented with such a pleasant possibility."

"Maintaining your distance," Will echoed faintly as he tried to catch up with the conversation. "Because you're my doctor." That had to be it. It was a line he had heard before. A consequence of their professions.

"No, dear Will," Hannibal corrected gently with a look on his face as if in pain. "Because I am your friend. And I would want nothing to threaten that friendship between us."

"And I threaten that friendship?" Will demanded, confused and suddenly hurt. He was losing something and he didn't even know what it was.

"No. That fault lies in me," Hannibal told him firmly. "And my desires."

The word rolled off of Hannibal's tongue more visceral and with more weight than the English language ever intended. It filled spaces between them. Will's mind raced as he reevaluated every conversation, every action, every observed trait with this new information. There was a lot to reevaluate. Will hadn't realized how much of his life had become wrapped up in Hannibal.

"Oh."

Will said nothing more. He offered no protest. And Hannibal saw him and understood him.

Hannibal leaned forward and smiled slowly but wide enough to show a hint of teeth. "I am afraid," he said deliberately. "That I am not as good a man as I would like you to believe. Temptation can be too much for me to wait." Hannibal was very courteous in his apology. But it was also a promise. All of the earlier reluctance seemed gone as if it had never truly existed.

"Oh."

That smile only grew and Will stared at it in fascination as the other man continued. "If you would like me to leave, I will. But I would rest much better tonight if I knew you were not alone."

"Oh."

Really. Will had to find something better to respond with. But it was so hard when one of the central fixtures of his life had changed so drastically. So unexpectedly.

Hannibal stood up but only enough to crouch down in front of Will's chair. He reached out one hand and lightly laid it on top of Will's. His thumb gently traced the bone underneath. "Will you look at me, Will?" he asked quietly. It was harder with Hannibal so close. More difficult to maintain the distance between them. But it was not every day that someone was offering him something like this. Certainly not someone like Hannibal. And Will wanted to see everything. So he took a deep breath. Ignored the flush running down his cheeks and the way his hands were clammy. And he stared back at Hannibal.

"May I stay by your side?"

There was only one possible answer.

"Yes."


	11. Chapter 11

_Sam stepped carefully down the stairs. His head hurt. He was dizzy and nothing felt right and he was so scared he was going to fall. He clung to the railing with one hand, the other crossed over his body to run along the same wall. He wanted to stop. Wanted to curl up on a step, cling to the wall and hope it all went away. Everything felt so wrong. Distorted, somehow. But at the same time he knew this was what was real._

_He wanted Dean. But Dean was back in the room and Sammy couldn't get back to him. There was a whole long hallway between him and his brother and he'd never make it back across that. And if he tried going up the stairs….He shivered even as his hands were slick with sweat and he could feel it running down his back. If he tried to go back up the stairs, he knew he'd fall for certain._

_And it was such a long way down. His head would crack like an egg. And there wouldn't be enough of him left to fix. And no one would hear him or come to help him._

_He whimpered. He wanted to be back in bed. He wanted Dean to be nearby. He even wanted Dad to come back and for things to go back the way they were. He'd miss Mr. Will but there was something bad here and it scared him. He wanted to be far away from it._

_But there was nowhere else to go but down._

_Trembling, Will slid his foot off of the step and down to the next one. One foot at a time, he inched forward and down. It was just stairs, but for some reason now it felt like climbing down the side of a mountain. As if at any moment the world might tilt and throw him off. His hand on the rail slipped once and his whole body jerking forward and barely hanging on and he started to cry._

_After ages and ages and a never ending night that seemed to move like molasses and pull at him till his limbs were heavy and could barely move –he finally reached the bottom. There was no more one-more-step. The floor was level and solid beneath his feet even as it tilted and swirled around him._

_Suddenly he was alone in a room too big and too dark. There were no walls and no ceiling. Just shadows and the small bit of floor he could see. For all he knew the world ended at that edge, falling away into nothingness beneath the floor boards. Just waiting to swallow him up._

_"Dean," he whimpered, crying so much that snot was running from his nose but he didn't care. He was too scared to wipe it away. If he moved he might lose his balance and fall over and if he fell over he might slip to the side and there was nothingness there and he'd be lost forever._

_There was a noise, muffled like from another room, but also so close it could almost touch him. A scratching noise like something hard and sharp dragging across the floor boards._

_Sam cried even louder. He didn't want it to find him. Didn't want it to take him away. Terrible bad things would happen if it did. Things Sam could almost see but didn't want to, didn't want to know what they were, what they meant, why he was seeing them._

_He gulped in more and more air, wanting it all to stop._

_And then a shadow stepped out of the dark, big and tall and black as ink, with horns and red eyes, and sometimes it was a man and sometimes it was the evil deer, but this time it wasn't looking at Mr. Will – it was looking at Sammy – and that was so much scarier 'cause Mr. Will was strong and knew what to do but Sammy was just a kid and he didn't know how to stop this and it was going to get him and take him away from Dean and terrible bad bloody things were going to happen and…_

_…Sammy opened his mouth and started to scream._

* * *

 

A child screeching as loudly and shrilly as possible was what woke Will and sent him tumbling out of bed. At first, he thought it had been yet another nightmare. Given the events of the last 24 hours, it was not unreasonable that he would have one. It was a large part of why Will had been against sharing his bed for the night. The sweat alone was off putting and not exactly the first impression he wanted to give someone like Hannibal as their relationship changed. But there was also the flailing that happened. More than once he'd slammed a knee or hand into the wall or nightstand.

Or, in this case, rolled violently out of bed and crashed into the ground elbows first. He had a moment to be grateful that he hadn't hit his head. Then he realized the screaming wasn't the left over phantom of a dream but very real and right in front of him.

Little Sammy was out of bed. He stood in the middle of the living room, still only in his t-shirt and shivering in the night air. His face was screwed up in a terrible look of horror, his face covered in tears and snot. His hair was damp with sweat and his face bright red. He was crying hysterically and screaming at the same time the way only a child could.

Will sucked in a lung full of air so quickly it hurt, then started scrambling to his feet. Then he saw Hannibal was already there, reaching out to the boy.

"It is only a dream, Sam. You need not be afraid. I will not hurt you," his voice was soft and even but loud enough to hopefully cut through the terror. Hannibal had stripped down to only his underclothes to sleep beside Will that night. His shirt, vest and jacket were draped carefully over the back of the desk chair. It left Hannibal looking open and intimate, exposed but not vulnerable. It was a startling appropriate image as he reached out and pulled Sam into his arms.

But the nightmare was set too deep and Sam was still caught in its throws. Will wasn't even sure if the boy was awake yet and merely disoriented or still trapped completely in his own head. Either way, he twisted like an eel to try to escape Hannibal's embrace, his shrieking cutting off into damp sounding whimpers.

Will found his feet and crossed the short distance between them to catch Sam as he tried to escape. Nothing was more difficult than a squirming child. He was aware of the thump from upstairs and the sound of rushing feet. Dean would be down here in a moment, assuming he didn't trip on the stairs and kill himself. The sooner they got Sam calmed down the better, since they were about to have two hysterical boys on their hands.

Even though Will had only meant to help Hannibal hold on to Sam, things didn't work out that way. As soon as Will touched his back, Sam was twisting and struggling around until his arms were wrapped around Will's neck and his legs around his waist. Hannibal let him go then, moving his hand to support Will instead.

"Sammy!"

Will cursed and lifted his head enough to call out, "It's okay, Dean, we've got him! Nightmare!"

Sam was shaking and still crying but silently now. Will rubbed circles on his back with one hand and kept a firm grip on him with the other. He whispered soothing words and old southern pet-names he hadn't realized he remembered. Things were a bit more under control when Dean jumped the last few steps and came stumbling into the room. He immediately grabbed for his brother, but Will was afraid one of them would drop the boy if they tried exchanging him like that. So Will blindly backed up, trusting the hand Hannibal kept on his arm to keep him from tripping and sank down on the edge of the bed. Dean followed just as faithfully and sat down as close as he could.

"What's wrong? What happened? Why is he down here? Sammy, hey, Sammy, can you hear me, big guy?"

Sam snuffled and turned his head so he could look at his brother, but his arms stayed tight around Will. "There was a monster," he whispered hoarsely.

Dean blanched.

"It's okay," Will told them both. He wanted to reach out for Dean as well but didn't want to let go of Sam. "It was just a nightmare. He was sleepwalking."

"Sammy never does that," Dean said firmly. "The kid never has nightmares."

"It's been a stressful day," Will reminded him. For everyone.

Dean just shook his head.

"Nightmares in children of Sam's age are very common," Hannibal informed him. "The imagination is developing and taking root at this stage, resulting in vivid dreaming." He could have been giving a presentation to a room full of peers based on his tone and regulated tempo, but that seemed to work on both boys. Nothing like the voice of a teacher to put a child to sleep. "While imagination is an important part of a child's development, it also coincides with the development of abstract fear. The two are closely linked, typically resulting in frequent nightmares for children between the ages of 3 and 6. I am surprised you have not had this problem with Sam before now. Given his sensitivity, I would have expected frequent incidents of sleep walking and unpleasant episodes such as this."

Will was familiar with the price of an overly active imagination. He was also going to completely ignore the similarity between himself and a six year old.

For all that Hannibal's lesson on child development worked to calm down Dean, the older boy still insisted on ignore him. "You okay, Sammy?" he asked, reaching out to rub Sam's head.

The boy nodded. He reached out one hand to pull Dean closer but still refused to let go of Will. His voice was so quiet that Will could barely hear him. "Can't let the monster get Mr. Will," Sam mumbled.

"Oh, Sammy," Will replied softly. "I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me." He glanced over at Dean and saw the mulish look on his face and felt his stomach drop. "Dean," he said forcefully. "I'm fine. It's fine. There is nothing to worry about. There are no monsters here and no one is going to hurt either of you. I'll make sure of it."

"Don't promise things you can't deliver," Dean muttered.

"Will," Hannibal said quietly from his other side. "If Dean's…beliefs about monsters are affecting Sam, it might be best to look at other arrangements."

Both boys stiffened, not at all fooled by the obtuse language. Sam's hug once more turned into a strangle hold and even Dean clung tightly to Will's side.

"Don't!" Dean whispered and Will jerked free a hand to grab on to Dean's knee to let him know it was going to be okay.

Sam started crying again. "We can't leave Mr. Will! The monster will get him! I saw it! I saw the evil deer! It was here!"

Will closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly past the misery and shame. "Sam," he sighed. "There's no evil deer. The stag isn't real. It's just a hallucination I keep having and you're such a clever boy that you must have imagined exactly what it might look like and now you're remembering that. It's not real," he repeated, both for the boys' sake and to reassure Hannibal.

He couldn't remember if he had mentioned the stag to Hannibal. It seemed like something they should have talked about, but Will wasn't always good at talking about the important things. As it was, Hannibal was a stiff line beside him. He hoped it wasn't because of the hallucinating thing. Surely Hannibal must have already known Will was a mess. And he hoped it also wasn't again about the idea of splitting the boys up. While Will could understand Hannibal's professional reasoning, surely he could see how bad of an idea that would be.

"What did it look like?" Hannibal asked with great seriousness. Will wasn't sure if getting Sam to describe it would make it seem less frightening or if it would make it feel more real. After all, Sam fed off of Will's fears and imagination with only a few hints.

Sam gathered his thoughts and managed to sit up a little straighter to tell them about it. "I was trying to get to Mr. Will. To check on him. But everything was moving so quickly. Or it was all the same and it was me that was moving super slow. I'm not sure which, but it was aweful," he said, screwing up his face in concentration. "And then I got to the bottom and there was a thing in the shadows. Except it didn't look like the one out in the field, Mr. Will. This one kept changing. Sometime it was the evil deer and sometimes it was even scarier. And it was in the room. And it wanted to take me away and keep me and bad things were going to happen and there was a lot of blood and it eats people!"

Will sighed and rubbed the boy's back some more. They shouldn't be surprised. As much as Dean obviously tried to shield his brother from the violence in their lives, some of it was bound to bleed over. Sam might not understand that there was something seriously wrong with Dean carrying and using a shotgun, but he had to aware that their father was not all together sane. Will glanced over at the older boy, wondering how he would take this development. The look of very real fear on the boy's face was both startling and highly alarming. Hannibal was right. They were going to have to do something about this. As much as they were all worried about Sam, it was Dean who had shouldered the brunt of the trauma in their household.

"Sam, could you let go of me for a minute?" he asked.

"No!" came the quick response before a more thoughtful "why?"

"I just need to talk to your brother for a moment. We'll get you something to drink, okay? Just stay here with Hannibal."

And the choke hold was returned. "What if the monster comes back?"

"Hannibal is right here, Sam. I promise you, there's no one better to protect you from monsters than Hannibal. He helps me all the time. And Dean and I will be just in the kitchen. Okay?"

He didn't rush the boy. They had all night and it didn't take long before the small head nodded against his chest. Will still had to help him unwind himself and settle more comfortably on the bed. A quick command to Cotton had the fluffiest of Will's dogs bounding across the room and hoping up onto the bed to sit next to Sam. The others were good and stayed put in their beds. Even Max, the most aggressive of his mutts, had slunk back off to bed once he had confirmed that there was nothing real to growl or bark at. Bull, the only one big enough to actually be a deterrent, had barely woken up despite the noise.

Will stood with a series of snaps and pops as his joints reminded him he was no longer in his twenties and flailing out of bed at oh-dark-hundred hurt. Dean didn't resist when Will put a hand on his shoulder and guided him to the kitchen. But he did look back more than once, seemingly less than satisfied with Hannibal's prowess.

The kitchen was darker than the main room. There were fewer windows in there and the back porch enclosed it even further. So Will propped open the refrigerator door to give them some illumination without blinding them. Dean stood motionless in the spill of light. He had better control of his facial expression now, but that tight control told Will more than the boy wanted.

"How much does your brother know about what your father does?" Will asked. When Dean just stared at him and refused to answer, he sighed and tried again. "You don't have to tell me about your father, Dean. I'm not trying to get information about him out of you. But I need to know how much your brother might be aware of. Did he ever see one of the bodies? Maybe hear you talking about it or seen the aftermath?"

Dean hesitated but shook his head. Slowly he began to talk, picking out his words carefully. "Dad doesn't talk about when he goes away on a business trip. Not in front of Sammy. I don't know why Sammy would – Mr. Graham," he said earnestly. "This is not like Sam. I know you think it might be normal or trauma or whatever the fuck, but this is different. Something is wrong. It's been wrong since you guys were under that tree. He saw that thing then. You," he stressed, "saw it then."

Will sighed and leaned back against the counter. His bare feet were cold standing on the tile but at least Dean still had his socks on and should be okay. "We talked about this, Dean. High stress situations can bring on cases of shared delusion. Sam is very sensitive to outside influences. And I," Will added sardonically. "I am not all together stable right now. It's been a rough few weeks."

Dean's eyes snapped up to focus on him. "How so?" he demanded.

And there was no way in hell Will was explaining the trail of mutilated bodies his job brought him into contact with. "Work," he replied shortly.

"Cold spots? Electrical interference? Anything weird?" Dean continued.

"Serial murderers," Will told him blandly. "Of the worst kind. Done by human's, Dean, no matter how monstrous they may seem. I assure you, in the end, it's the humanity in them that is the worst part of it." Will sighed. "My job is not good for me," he admitted. "But I am good for my job. So I make do. But my own stress has been presenting itself in more insistent ways. Like hallucinations. But that is a product of my mind and only that."

"What would it take to convince you there's something else going on?" Dean insisted. "You're a smart guy. If I could find a way to prove it to you…"

"You can't, Dean," Will replied sadly.

But Dean just shook his head. "Everybody says that till shit happens." He thought for a moment. "You keep seeing this deer thing, right?"

"A stag," Will agreed carefully, interested in seeing where Dean would go with this but leery of encouraging him.

"Right. Stag. So what if Sammy drew it? He's not Picasso or anything, but he knows how to use crayons. What if he drew it and it looked like what you keep seeing, wouldn't that count for something?"

That wasn't a terrible idea. Will stared at him, wondering how much Sam had told him. The younger boy was still calling it the evil deer, which was not a very good description. Dean seemed confident that this plan of his would work, but Dean was also very good at pretending to be confident. An ingrained delusion didn't take much to feed into it, but Will didn't want to shut Dean out by saying no.

"I would be interested in seeing what he drew," Will admitted. As a temporary fix, it might buy them more time.

"Alright. Let's do this."

Dean was already turning away, ready to march back into the living room and test his theory. Will caught his wrist loosely, just a hint of pressure to get him to stop. "Dean," he asked carefully. "What will you do if his drawing doesn't match what I've…experienced?"

Dean frowned as he gave the question some thought. He seemed to reach a decision and sighed heavily. He was far too young of a boy to look that weary. "I guess I can figure it out on my own," he concluded.

"That was not what I wanted to hear," Will told him with his own sigh. It wasn't lost on him that they were both equally tired, frustrated and afraid. Or that they both thought the other was crazy. Maybe that was the real reason Will shouldn't be out in the field. It was so easy to get sucked into someone else's madness if you weren't unquestionably, unflinchingly sure of your own sanity. "Can we come up with a compromise?"

Dean gave him the side eye, but shifted closer like they were sharing secrets in the dark. "What kind?"

Will rubbed at his face, knowing both Hannibal and Alana would probably have his hide for this. "I need you to not pursue this, Dean. I need you to play nice – and not by the rules your father taught you."

Dean snorted. "Fat chance of that," he replied candidly before tilting his head to the side and studying Will. "What do I get in return for good behavior?" he demanded.

Heaven help him. "What do you want? Within reason."

Dean smirked back before thinking about his answer. "Salt lines," he decided.

Well. Apparently the stolen salt was important. "What does that mean?"

Dean shifted nervously. "Salt keeps things out. Most things. You have to put it along the doors and windows."

Will wished he could say he was surprised. But it was the kind of "logic" often found in cases like these. A constant state of hyperawareness was impossible to maintain. Even the most deranged mind needed time to regroup. The more fully developed the delusion, the harder it was for the person to find a safe space to rest, relax, recuperate. But the mind, in all of its brilliance, always seemed to find a way. There was always some kind of loop hole no matter how small. Sometimes it was an astoundingly complex ritual and other times it was something as ridiculously simple as salt lines. If a salt line could 'magically' keep things out, then that would be simple enough task that might give the boys a chance to get some real sleep. All the help in the world wouldn't matter if the boys didn't feel safe in their own beds. The body and the mind needed sleep, good, nightmare free, restorative sleep. Will understood that all too well.

"I am not entire comfortable with this," Will finally announced. He knew he was going to do it. It was one of those choices that came to him in perfect clarity. But that didn't mean he couldn't have reservations about the fallout.

Dean gave him a weird look. "Why? Scared of a little salt messing up your floors?"

"Beyond the complication of keeping the dogs out of it, yes, I have some concerns about feeding into what appears to be a delusionary obsessive compulsion."

"Ouch!" Dean replied, but there was a grin spreading across his face. "Don't pull any punches on my account."

Will struggled not to smile back. "Dean," he said warningly.

Dean waved him off. "I get it. You think I'm coo-coo for co-co puffs. That's fine. Just unbend a little on this and we can all go back to bed."

"Compromise," Will rebutted. "Salt lines at night, but only at night." If it would help Dean sleep, that would likely do more for his well-being than trying to do a quick fix on whatever his father had done to his head. At least for right now. And more importantly, he needed Dean to compromise with him on something. Meet him halfway somewhere. Maybe if he felt like he had some control of the situation, he might be more willing to listen.

"Done. But tomorrow Sammy draws us an evil deer thingie and you can see he's not crazy."

Will flinched and hunched his shoulders in and moved his eyes to the floor. "I never said he was," Will assured him.

"Yeah, I know," Dean agreed readily enough. And it was almost bizarre to hear something soft in the other boy's voice. "You told me. You think you're the crazy one and you're trying to keep us out of it. But you're only crazy if they're not really out to get you. And I'm beginning to think you're exactly the kind of thing evil shit goes after."

The worst part was, Will really couldn't argue with that. Darkness did have a way of following him home.


	12. Chapter 12

Will had pulled out your standard salt drum out from a cabinet and was staring down at it blearily eyed. Dean kind of felt bad for waking the guy up in the middle of the night. He looked like he could use a good night's rest. But if something was after him, that might explain his shitty health. Spirits and ghosts and other shit had a way of messing with a person's sleeping habits and general well-being. Getting the salt lines down would probably be the best thing for everyone.

"This isn't going to be enough?" Will finally ventured.

Dean wanted to laugh. The guy looked like a putz standing in his kitchen in his underwear trying to figure out the right amount of salt needed to indulge his "crazy" house guest. Something must have shown on his face because Will's eyes flicked up to him and away in that weird way of his. It was like having the most bizarre all-seeing teacher who never actually looked at you.

"I have rock salt?" Will suggested, and bless him for trying. "I use it for the driveway."

"Excellent," Dean agreed. Rock salt always worked better than table salt.

"I'll just go get it?"

Dean nodded all business like. He didn't want to show just how relieved he was. Finally something was sort of under his control. "I'll go check on Sammy."

Will flinched again. Damn it must be rough jumping at so many shadows. When Dean found the thing causing this, he was going to shoot it good. "Let me explain this to Hannibal," Will muttered.

Dean held up his hands and pointedly took a step back. "Sure thing. You can handle your boyfriend." And okay, he hadn't really meant it to sound that dirty but it was funny. Especially when Will turned red so fast he looked like he hurt something.

"We're not – We just – I don't even know."

Dean didn't know whether to laugh or make gagging noises. "Dude, I don't want to know. You're old enough to be my dad. He's old enough to my granddad."

Will scowled back. "We are not that old."

"Whatever you say, gramps." And then Dean got the hell out of there before he got his ears boxed.

Things had rearranged in the living room. Sam had moved off of the bed and was sitting in the middle of the dogs' area. He had a pooch under each hand and another leaning against his back. That wasn't surprising. Seeing Dr. Lecter sitting on the floor next to Sam, letting one of the beasts rest its head on his leg was beyond weird. Yeah, the guy looked more like a regular human being in the wee hours of the morning, but it was still bizarre as fuck.

And thank god the man had put pants on at some point. Seeing Will in his boxers, Dean could deal with. He was just another regular joe like the rest of them. Having to know what Dr. Good Food and Manners wore under his ugly ass suits was way more information than Dean needed in his life.

Sammy was talking quietly but he stopped suddenly when he saw Dean standing in the door. There was a look on his face that Dean couldn't quite place but that also made him tense all over once more. He hovered in the doorway, suddenly feeling not welcome and not knowing what the hell to do with that. There wasn't anything Dean didn't know about the kid and it freaked him out that that might change. "Sammy?" he asked weakly.

But Sam just tilted his head, studying Dean right back. It was Dr. Lecter that turned slowly, his head tilted in the same manner but with something on his face almost like a smile but not quite one. "Dean," he replied. "We were just talking. Would you care to join us?"

Dean kind of wanted to tell the guy he wasn't joining anything. That if there was anybody here that needed an invitation to talk to Sammy, it sure as hell wasn't him. But even Dean knew that sounded stupid and rude and yeah, maybe a bit crazy. So sue him. He had a lot to deal with. The world could cut him a break. He sure as hell knew none of those FBI goons could hold it together as well as he did if they really knew the truth.

"What were you talking about?" Dean asked, hoping that sounded more normal than he felt. He moved carefully into the room. Dr. Lecter had his legs stretched out and Dean gave them a wide berth as he moved to get closer to Sam.

"Lithuanian folk tales," Dr. Lecter replied.

Dean stopped where he was and stared at the guy. Right. 'Cause that was totally normal.

Dr. Lecter's face tightened, just a fraction. It could almost be called a frown if one was being generous. "I was born in Lithuania," he informed Dean.

"Oh." And now Dean felt like a great big heel. "Okay. Um, that's cool. Thanks for sharing?" he tried. "We haven't met anyone from a different country. Unless you count Texas or Canada."

This time Dr. Lecter did frown. "Why would you not count Canada? It is a different country," he informed Dean like he thought he was slow or something.

"I know that," Dean muttered. "It's just, it's Canada, ya know? It's not the same kind of different as a different country."

Dr. Lecter's face was still a little pinched but he sighed and seemed to let it go. "Indeed. I suspect your lifestyle has not left much room for cultural diversity or growth."

"I know diverse crap," Dean argued. He flopped down on the floor since this was apparently a conversation they were having. The brown shaggy looking dog immediately moved to join him and Dean scooted away. The dog seemed to get the message 'cause it stopped where it was and laid down but the stupid mutt kept staring at him. "I know all about old weird gods and legends and ghost stories and shit."

"Language, Dean," Dr. Lecter intoned. He didn't seem too pissed about it, though. More disappointed and that kind of made Dean feel stupid.

"Right," he muttered back so the guy would stop staring at him.

"I thought you didn't like ghost stories," Sam asked.

Dean frowned. "I don't. They're stupid."

"Dean's scared of them," Sam told Dr. Lecter like the little punk he was.

"Am not!"

"Boys," Dr. Lecter gave them both a firm look. "Sam, I doubt your brother is afraid of ghost stories."

Dean shut his mouth and stared at him. "I'm not," he agreed firmly even though he was sort of confused. Clearly, Dr. Lecter liked Sammy more than he did Dean. He didn't expect him to come to his defense on this. Normal people didn't. Sam was cute and smart and little so people liked him. Dean was a pain in the ass.

And somehow, when he was wasn't looking, that damn dog had crept up on him and now had its wet nose pressed to the side of Dean's jeans. Gross.

"Learning not to fear the darkness is an important step in life," Dr. Lecter told them. "Not all ghost stories are necessarily frightening. And even those that are can often teach us more about ourselves than anything else. Knowing all aspects of yourself, both the light and the dark, is an important part of self-awareness. After all, we are rarely all one thing and one thing only."

Maybe Dean had been going about this the wrong way. Will was nice and everything, and Dean like the guy, but he was seriously spooked and probably not up for handling the big truth. But Dr. Lecter at least seemed open to the idea that there was weird shit out in the world and you just had to accept that and move forward.

"Will said I could put out salt tonight," Dean blurted without really meaning to.

"Did he."

Dean looked away so he wouldn't have to see if the guy thought he was crazy. As long as they went along with it, Dean didn't care. The dog was back to trying to tuck its nose under Dean's knee. After the third time moving his leg, Dean thought screw it and sat stiff as a board and ignore it, hoping the dumb animal would get the hint and go away.

"Would you like assistance with the salt?" Dr. Lecter asked, his voice as mild and pleasant as if they were back in the kitchen cooking dinner.

"I can help!" Sammy offered right away.

Dean let him sometimes, when it was just the two of them. Living out of motels and shitty houses, it was hard to hide the precaution from the little boy. Dad never talked about it with Sam, so Dean had done the best he could. Thankfully, it was something they had both grown up with, and Sam didn't question it much. If they were staying the night somewhere, salt lines went down. He didn't need to know why. And, Dean privately thought, the brat got a kick out of getting to make a 'mess'. But as long as the lines were unbroken and he didn't waste too much salt, Dean was happy to let him do so.

"You sure?" Dean asked Dr. Lecter. He got why Sammy wanted to help. He hadn't the faintest why the doctor did.

"Certainly," the man said, climbing slowly to his full height. "We had similar traditions in Lithuania. Salt has long been used to bless and protect the home – and family."

Just then Will came shuffling back into the room. His cheeks had two bright red spots on them from the cold and he kept rubbing one foot over the other. There was no bag of salt in sight, but Dean suspected the man had been out in the garage. It was probably pretty chilly out there.

Dr. Lecter made a tutting noise, and in one smooth movement like a waiter on TV snapping off a table cloth, he had the blanket off of the bed and around the other man's shoulders. "Did you find the boys' salt?" he asked. He rubbed Will's shoulders briskly and Will let him even though his whole face was red now.

Also, he shot Dean a pretty impressive glare. Dean may have forgotten to let him be the one to tell the doctor.

"Oops?"

"We should not keep secrets," Dr. Lecter said. "Not between the four of us."

"Wasn't a secret," Will grumbled. "Just wanted to figure out how to tell you so it didn't sound crazy."

"I see no harm in it," Dr. Lecter announced. "Though I am very concerned that you would feel the need to hide something from me, Will, out of fear that I might think less of you for whatever is necessary for your peace of mind."

"It's not for me!" Will objected.

"Did you find your road salt?" Dr. Lecter asked. The propriety of the question made it sound like Will lost things regularly and Dr. Lecter always knew where they were. God, it made them sound like a married couple.

"Yes," Will grumbled as he ducked back into the kitchen and dragged a heavy bag into the room.

Industrialized salt supply, awesome.

"Come here," Dr. Lecter told the boys. "I will show you an old blessing used in the land where I was born. It is meant to keep misfortune away and keep the members of a household safe together in times of danger."

Sam was on his feet in a moment and pushing to stand in front of the doctor. Dean came forward more reluctantly. "Not much for prayin'," he said.

"Do not think of it as a prayer," Dr. Lecter returned. "We are not ones for such pointless activities. It is more a focus of one's awareness and desires." He reached into the bag and brought out a handful of crystals. He lifted Sam's hand and slowly poured some of it into the cup of his palm. "I want you to pay attention, Sam. Think of this as an exercise in meditation. I want you to focus first on your immediate surroundings. Pay attention to what you can observe and feel. The listen to the way the house groans, the old wood beneath your feet. Will has owned this house for several years. He has made it his own through labor and love. Taste the night air. It is still trapped between the grains of salt, brought in with Will. See the way the light reflects off of each angle of each grain, increasing exponentially. Smell the warm bodies around you, myself, Will, Dean, even the dogs that are as much a part of this home as you or I. Focus on what home tastes like. Imagine it here."

Dr. Lecter was good at this. His voice was nearly hypnotic and Dean wanted to lean against something as it filled the room. He felt disconnected standing by himself. Sam was leaning into the doctor, his hand still cupped gently and filled with salt, his body cradled by the bigger one surrounding him. Will stood across from them and Dean, like the third point of a triangle around the bag of salt. His eyes were unfocused, his hands held loosely at his sides, his fingers rubbing lightly together as if he could feel what Dr. Lecter was saying. "Now, we share the blessing of home and family, safety and unity, power and respect, nature and will." And then Dr. Lecter said something Dean couldn't understand but it fit a lot better with the man's voice than English did. It wasn't long. Just a few phrases. Dean tried to remember them. They might be useful later. His dad would probably want to look it up. Anything that could help them fight the monsters had to be used. It didn't sound like the Latin dad sometimes studied, but maybe it could help.

And then they were done. Dr. Lecter closed his hand and guided Sam to do the same. "Now we should spread it as needed. Dean," he addressed him. "Would you like to do the honors of showing us?"

"Sure." He could handle that. Though part of him suspected Dr. Lecter already knew how.

The adults followed his example gamely. Will insisted on getting the hard to reach window sills, climbing over the furniture awkwardly while Dr. Lecter stood behind him and handed him fresh refiles of salt. Dean focused on watching Sammy's work. He'd go back and check what the adults had done when they weren't looking.

They were on the other side of the room taking care of the fireplace when Will whispered. "Thank you. For not being upset. For taking them seriously."

"I would not hold such a thing against you, Will," Dr. Lecter replied. "And I always take you seriously."

There was silent for a moment more. Sam was more drawing designs with his salt than laying it out properly. Dean was trying to ignore the rest of the room.

"It was a nice ceremony," Will commented.

"It is a traditional blessing for a new home or the beginning of a new life," Dr. Lecter told him. "It has been many years since I have used it, but it was my pleasure to share it with you and the boys. Such traditions should not be forgotten, and I believe with the right guidance, may work out well for Sam and Dean. I learned many such things in my homeland. So few of them have been useful to me since then. I am afraid my interests went in a different direction."

"Thank you," Will repeated. "I could almost feel the strength in the words as if they were real things that were soaking into the house and us. It was peaceful."

"I am always here to help you, Will. If you have an interest in such things, purely as a meditative practice mind you, I would be delighted to share more of my history with you."

"I would like that."

Urgh. Dean scowled and had to struggle not to cover up his ears. Really people. They were laying salt lines not acting out some soap opera plot. Sam gave him a weird look and Dean shoved him back for it. "You finished yet or what? I wanna go to bed."

Sam sighed as if it were a great tragedy, but tidied up his lines to something that would pass inspection.

"Alright then! We're going to bed! Good night! Please don't be disgusting," he muttered as he dragged Sam towards the stairs.

Will laughed lightly behind them.

* * *

Hannibal helped Will down from kneeling on top of the desk. It had been the only way to reach the sill behind it and his balance was precarious at best. "Do I want to know?" he asked in a warm voice that was almost as good as the blanket earlier.

"Probably not," Will replied with an impish grin directed at the floor. "Apparently we're too old to have such interests. Ah, to be so young! Everyone over thirty seems ancient."

Hannibal didn't let go of his hand until both feet were firmly on the floor once more. And even then his hand snuck up to wrap around the back of Will's neck. It was as warm as sin. Usually it was Will whose temperature seemed to run hot, but standing this close to Hannibal, he thought the two of them might be evenly matched in that regard.

"There are some other traditions I could share with you," Hannibal said.

Will made a noise that he hoped was in agreement. He wasn't sure if Hannibal was serious or implying something. Either was very possible and he wasn't sure which he would prefer. He hoarded the small bits of himself that Hannibal freely shared, but he also wouldn't mind terribly if it was a rather blunt innuendo.

Hannibal smiled slowly, just the small uptick of the corners of his mouth. "For example, there is one ritual performed between friends as a sign of their commitment to one another. It may be considered a bit taboo by today's standards."

Will leaned back against the desk, content to listen to Hannibal talk. He had never spoken of his childhood before. Apparently being the temporary guardians of two damaged boys brought out the nostalgia in both of them. "As long as it doesn't involve animal sacrifice, I don't think I'd mind."

There was that twitch of a grin. Really, it was almost a sparkle in Hannibal's eyes, if such a description wasn't too banal and ridiculous for a man like Dr. Lecter. "No, this particular bit of spirituality involves no living sacrifice," he paused for drama, the showman. "There is a small amount of blood, I am afraid. Hence its loss of favor with the general public, I suspect."

Will shrugged. "I'm no stranger to a bit of blood. Just a bit concerned where the blood comes from."

"The two friends, naturally."

Will started to grin. "You mean like swearing to be blood brothers?" he asked. "You do realize just about every boy from the south has done that at one point or another? There's usually also spit involved, but that seems to increase its popularity, not decrease it."

Hannibal looked pained. "Please do not be crass. This is a very old, very meaningful tradition. Please do not equate the two." He paused for a moment, studying Will's face with an intensity that made Will want to look up and meet that need for knowledge. "You did not partake of this bastardization of a ceremony, did you?" he asked, actually sounding a bit concerned.

Will blushed but it wasn't the good kind. He started to move away from the desk, no longer so comfortable. "Not likely," he answered. "Who would have me?"

Hannibal caught him by the elbow, his other hand moving to Will's hip. Gently, the way one dance partner would guide another backwards, he shifted Will until he was once more leaning back against the desk. This time, with Hannibal standing in front of him close enough to embrace. They were almost the same height. Will was staring fixedly at the lovely tie Hannibal was wearing and how snug it fitted against his throat and how soft the skin there looked. That meant his head was tucked down slightly and it felt like Hannibal was leaning over him when he whispered in his ear.

"I would have you. All of you. In all your forms."

Such promises, in a voice that seemed to crawl inside Will and take hold of him. He held still as lips brushed against his ear. His body was loose, however, languid. Almost half asleep and dreamlike, except it had been far too long since Will last had a dream this good. Hannibal probably could have asked him anything and he would have agreed.

"Let me feed you." It was part enticement and part command. "Tomorrow night. And we can discuss old Lithuanian traditions."

There was no way in hell Hannibal didn't mean the proposition there. There was so much Will could read into that. So much he could imagine. He closed his eyes, not want to risk seeing what he was hearing. That would be too much. He'd do something embarrassing if he saw the look on Hannibal's face right now. He could feel the heat from Hannibal's cheek against his, the faint whisper of contact. It made him wished he'd shaved recently. He wanted to feel that more.

It was a challenge to focus. "Dean and Sam," he whispered back. He had responsibilities now. And this was not a dinner he wanted the kids at. Dean, at least, might be traumatized for life if Will brought him along to what might almost be considered a date.

Hannibal seemed to follow his thinking without difficulty. He huffed out a laugh, the air ghosting across Will's jaw and down the back of his collar. Words were happening and it was important that Will listen. "As much as I would enjoy feeding them as well, perhaps something else can be arranged for them for the evening."

"Babysitter," Will agreed readily. "I can arrange that. There must be someone."

Then he stopped thinking about it because Hannibal was kissing him, his lips smooth and dry and insistent as he slid both hands under Will's t-shirt and up his back.

It was a much better nighttime interruption than what Will was used to.


	13. Chapter 13

Dean didn't sleep.

He laid fresh salt lines in their bedroom, then an extra ring around the bed. It was the only thing he could think of. He was pretty sure if he asked Will if he could sleep with the man's service pistol under his pillow there would be a lot of talking involved and still no gun. So he did the best he could with what he had and prepared to stay up all night. Something wanted Sammy and there was no way in hell Dean was going to let that happen.

So while the brat curled up and knocked right out, Dean kept his eyes open and stared at the wall, then the ceiling, then the other wall. He waited for the rest of the house to wake up. It had been quiet downstairs after they left and Dean had hoped it stayed that way. It was just their luck that the two guys willing to give them a break where also busy making moon-eyes at each other. Just because he understood something didn't mean he wanted to know about it. It was awkward as fuck and Dean didn't know how he was supposed to act.

He knew Dad went home with women from bars sometimes. He usually figured it out whenever Dad didn't make it home at night but there wasn't a case. A couple of times they had been in town long enough that whoever it was would see them in town later. That was just as awkward as this, but Dean was allowed to be a little shit to anyone who thought just because she'd slept with their dad, she had the right to them or something. But Will didn't ask for anything from Dean or Sam and always treated them way nicer than he should have for as fucked up as he thought they were.

Morning took forever to come, but the rest of the night passed as quiet and peaceful as a still lake. It was something to be grateful for. Dean waited till he heard the blessed sounds of a coffee machine turning on before extracting himself from the bed. Damn Sammy was like an octopus and getting free was a lesson in evasion tactics. The dork didn't even wake up.

When Dean crept down the stairs the kitchen was empty. He stood uneasily in the middle of the room, watching the coffee drip and wondering if there was anything he could do to make himself useful. The dishes had already been washed, but they hadn't been put away yet so Dean started on that as soundlessly as he could.

There was the sound of the toilet flushing and that explained why the room was empty. Whoever was up first must have started the coffee before taking care of anything else. It was priorities Dean could agree with. Dr. Lecter was the one who appeared from the hallway. His hair was mussed but he had his button-up shirt back on. He still looked out of sorts and shockingly like a normal person which seriously freaked Dean out. He stopped in the doorway and stared as Dean finished squeezing the last of the glasses into its designated cupboard.

Just when Dean was starting to get seriously creeped out getting stared at like that, Dr. Lecter nodded his head. "Thank you, Dean, for finishing the cleaning."

Dean wiped his hands off on his jeans and tried to hold that stare. He wasn't the type to look away first, but Dr. Lecter was a pro at this kind of thing and could probably out stare Dad. "Welcome?" he muttered.

Dr. Lecter gave him a nodded in return that was far too serious. "Let us begin breakfast," he announced. And then he sighed. "We will have to make do with the limited resources of Will's kitchen."

So that's what they did. Dean followed along behind Dr. Lecter, doing whatever tasks the man assigned him. Dean was careful. He'd never made breakfast before. Cereal was cheap and easy enough. The most complicated thing he'd ever had to make in the morning was oatmeal for when it was cold out or if Sammy was sick. The biggest challenge he'd ever had was whether or not there was any milk.

Dr. Lecter, however, would settle for nothing short of eggs, biscuits and hashbrowns. He lamented their lack of sausage or bacon to accompany it. Dean was just fascinated that a person could make biscuits with nothing more than flour, butter, milk and baking soda. That and hashbrowns took a hell of a lot of work when you had to start out with whole potatoes. But Dean was used to a little sweat and Dr. Lecter seemed more than content to turn the task over to him once he showed him the proper method.

It was almost kind of fun. Not as much fun as working on the Impala, and Dean would never ever admit it to anyone else, but it was something new to learn and the results were awesome. Dean was always a fan of food.

Will stumbled into the room midway through their work. Lecter stopped what he was doing to press a cup of prepared coffee into Will's hands. Then there was some kind of snuggling and/or kissing action happening there and Dean focused entirely on potatoes. Nothing but potatoes.

It wasn't long after that when Sam came charging down the stairs like a herd of buffalo. He was dressed, but his head looked like a family of mice had been living in it. Last night seemed a distant memory for him as he smiled widely and started asking questions about everything. What was Dean doing? How did Mr. Lecter make that? Was Mr. Will going to take the dogs for a walk and could Sam come?

Will found Sam's energy entertaining, for whatever reason. He took Sam out back and let him run with the dogs in the field. Dean learned how to properly crack an egg without risking getting the shell in it and possibly contaminating it with all of the nasty stuff that's on the outside of shells. Apparently, despite looking all clean and fresh in the store, eggs were still kind of gross. A thought Dean could have lived without and had him paying close attention. Dr. Lecter brought Will a fresh cup of coffee and the two of them stayed out on the back porch longer than that should have taken. But Dean was good. He had his eye on everything in the kitchen and made sure nothing was ruined.

They sat at the table again. Lecter insisted on it. He had Will show Sam how to set out the plates and shit, with only a few minor corrections from the doctor when even Will had it wrong. Apparently knives had to go on one side of the plate, not the other, and the blade should always be facing inward not outward. Who knew. And frankly, who cared, but it was keeping Sam entertained and had the adults focused on something that wasn't Dean.

Will was regaling them with stories of the elaborate dinners Hannibal had hosted when the phone started ringing. Dean didn't think much of it, at first, but the way Will's face suddenly paled and his eyes darted to Dr. Lecter was not the sign of good things. Dean laid his fork down. Will left to answer the phone and didn't come back. If Dean listened closely he could heard the man's voice rising and falling sharply in the other room. Sam helped himself to another biscuit while Dr. Lecter continued to eat his poached eggs in tiny, neat bites.

"Your food will become cold," he intoned without looking over at Dean. "The flavor is not the same at that point."

"Not hungry," Dean muttered.

"It is rude not to eat the food someone has prepared for you."

Dean really could care less about being rude, but he was also painfully, completely aware of the fact that he and Sammy were only here on these two men's good graces. "Is it my dad?" he blurted. He didn't want to ask. Didn't want them to see how worried his was – but it was Dad. If something had happened, if the FBI had caught him or, even worse, if the vamps had tracked him down, then Dean had to know.

Dr. Lecter finally looked up at him, his eyes as cool and distant as if no one was home in there. "I cannot know, since I am in here with you, finishing our meal, and not in Will's mind."

"Right," Dean answered, looking back down. He picked up his fork again because he didn't know what else to do with his hands. But all he was capable of was drawing designs in his egg yolk.

Dr. Lecter sighed quietly. "One should never waste a meal," he informed Dean. "Particularly in times of stress. When you are uncertain when and what your next meal will be, it is only logical to take full advantage of what has been placed before you."

It was the kind of thing Dad would say. Well, maybe not with so many words or like he was reading scripture or something, but the idea was simple. Dean forced himself to scoop up some of the mess and shove it in his mouth. He had to keep his strength up and be ready for whatever happened next.

Thank god and everything that was holy, Will wasn't gone long. There was a moment of silence from the other room before Will stepped back into the kitchen. He looked to Dr. Lecter first and Dean felt like his skin was going to explode if he didn't get any answers.

"I have to go into work," Will announced finally. He wouldn't look at either Sammy or Dean.

"Is he," Dean cleared his throat, determined to get it out evenly. He was the responsible one now. "Is he alive?" Sammy finally stopped eating and turned to stare at his brother.

Will head snapped around and he met Dean's eyes straight on. "Oh," he exhaled. "Yes, I'm sure he is," he said quickly. Dean breathed in deep but kept a firm grip on his fork and held his arm stiffly at his side. But Will continued. "I mean to say, I don't actually know, but I'm sure he's fine. That call wasn't about him. As far as I know, Dean, nothing has changed with your father."

Sammy was shooting looks back and forth between the two of them, but thank fuck he kept his mouth shut. He was familiar with Dad disappearing for days at a time and with not getting many phone calls during that period. He wasn't used to people worrying out loud about how he was doing.

"When did Dad say he'd be back?" Sam asked. And of course that would be the first thing out of his mouth. It was his favorite question after "why" and "why not."

"He didn't," Dean informed him brusquely. He'd learned very quickly never to give Sam a definitive answer to that question. The kid had a memory like a steel trap and wouldn't let Dean forget it. As soon as Dad was all of an hour late, Sam would start demanding to know where he was, what he was doing, why he was gone again...

Dean breathed in deeply a couple of times and forced himself to unclench his hand and set his fork down with great care. Dad was fine. Dad was fine. As long as Dad was okay, they'd figure this out.

"I have to go into work," Will repeated. It was a bit abrupt, but Dean appreciated a change in topic. Anything to get everyone to stop staring at him. But when he looked up at Will the man was grimacing and Dr. Lecter had his not happy face on. It was hard to tell the different with Lecter, but Dean was starting to notice the way he clenched his teeth whenever Dean did something crass. It was good to know when you were pissing someone off. Knowing which buttons to push to get someone going was important.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked.

Will glanced over at him but his eyes skirted away. "Nothing!" he assured him.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, then why do both of you look like someone pissed in your cheerios."

"Dean!" Even Will looked pained at that one. Dean blushed and looked away but shrugged his shoulders as if it didn't matter to him that they thought he was stupid.

"Disregarding your...colorful turn of phrase, the sentiment is not too far from the truth," Dr. Lecter said slowly. "I assume you informed Jack that your responsibilities and situation have changed somewhat in the past 24 hours," he said to Will. There was a very pointed look at Sam and Dean and Dean realized what the problem was. FBI guy probably didn't want to leave a couple of delinquents loose and unsupervised in his office. Which, hey, Dean couldn't blame him. Give him an hour and he'd have this place searched from top to bottom and every possible weapon confiscated for the good of the cause.

But Will just shrugged and looked away. "I have an office?" he offered tentatively, as if looking for Lecter's approval.

Dr. Lecter's mouth quirked. "Somehow I suspect that taking the boys to Quantico for the day would not end well for someone." And damned if the guy didn't glance over at him when he said that. Dean wouldn't mind too much going if Will intended to leave them unsupervised for any length of time. Hell, that might be even better. There were all kinds of things there that Dean could "borrow" and it would be easy to walk out the front door of a place like that. They were so focused on keeping unauthorized people from getting in that they wouldn't look twice at a couple of kids wandering out.

Now Will was looking at him too and Dean put on his best 'I wouldn't do nothing' face and smiled.

Will, the jerk, snorted.

"Hey!"

"You're right," he said to Dr. Lecter. "Probably not a good idea. Maybe I can get one of the students to keep an eye on them. It'd be a bit of an abuse of power, but it'll be good practice for the future. Babysitting isn't too dissimilar from protection details."

Dean made a point of looking outraged. "I don't need a babysitter," he informed them haughtily.

"Yeah, and Dean can watch me!" Sam piped in helpfully, bless his heart. The kid had no idea what was really going on, but he was all for no adults.

Will made a face that could have generously be called a smile, but was really more of a sarcastic grimace. "Yeah. No. I'll find...somebody."

Dr. Lecter finished his last bite and set down his utensils. "I believe the best solution would be for me to take responsibility for Sam and Dean for the day. Or at least until Jack is finished with you."

Will hesitated, staring at something off to the far left. "Your patients..."

"I already rescheduled my morning appointments in anticipation of your needs," Dr. Lecter announced as he rose from his seat. Reaching over, he picked up Will's plate and stared at his face as the action brought them closer together. "I believe the boys can keep themselves entertained in my waiting room while I am busy. And I will be close on hand if they feel the need to stretch their legs."

Will's lips twitched as if there was some in-joke there and Dean suspected that however Dr. Lecter's office was set up, the guy was confident he'd know if Dean so much as opened a window. Bossy bastard. Still, when Lecter gave him a look, Dean was quick to stand and scoop up his and Sammy's plates and follow him to the sink.

So Will got ready for work. He didn't look much like an FBI agent, standing nervously by the door. He still wasn't wearing a suit like Dad did when he was getting information out of people. Instead he was in a shirt that looked like something Dad would actually like and a pair of wrinkled kakis. He kept fiddling with the strap of his bag and darting his eyes around the room. Dean tried asking him what was wrong, but Will just shook his head and said something about not wanting to go into work.

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "So don't go," he suggested. He thought working for the FBI was supposed to be cool. Sure, they didn't really know jack shit about anything, but most people didn't know that. To most people, the FBI were the heroes, catching the bad guys and being all cool in their suits, with their badges and authority and stuff. The local cops usually folded like a house of cards when Dad said he was FBI. Though, sure, Will probably wasn't going to intimidate anyone with the whole not looking people in the eyes thing and the way he tried to look small when he was standing. But Dean would have thought the guy would at least like his job.

"I have to go," Will sighed and he sounded so much like Dad when he was tired that Dean had to do something.

He nodded sharply. "I'll get you some coffee to go then. And a sandwich. And some aspirin." 'Cause those were the things Dad needed when he was run ragged and the day looked as shitty as the last. He didn't wait to see how Will would respond.

Dr. Lecter insisted on making the coffee himself but he relented on the PB&J. Probably 'cause it was the only kind of sandwich Will had the stuff for. Once everything was ready, Lecter insisted on escorting Will to his car, like he was walking his date home or something. Which was dorky as hell and left Dean standing alone on the porch like a putz watching the one person there who actually seemed to give a shit about him and Sam drive away.

Lecter walked back slowly and stood at the base of the stairs and stared back at Dean.

"I trust that I can expect you," Lecter intoned in a voice low and sort of gravely in a way that was definitely not southern, "not to do anything rash or that may compromise the extensive lengths Will went to in order to keep you and your brother out of child services or separated in institutions."

And – oh, yeah – he and Lecter understood each other really damn well on some things. Keep in line or else. Dean nodded stiffly. It wasn't going to stop him from looking for a good opportunity, but he was going to make damn sure it was a sure thing before he took it.

Lecter nodded regally. "Excellent. I am pleased we have that established. Now, I suggest we gather your brother. Hopefully he has had ample opportunity to stretch his legs in the backyard. I am afraid with morning traffic, it may take us as much as two hours or more to reach my office."

"Sam'll be fine," Dean muttered but did as he was told. Tearing Sammy away from the dogs was a bit harder than he had expected it to be. The stupid kid kept asking if he could take the little fluffy one with them. He didn't seem to understand that the people that drove Bentley's didn't let stupid mutts in their cars. However, it was freaky watching Lecter have the dogs line up in the living room when they got ready to leave like he was an officer conducting an inspection. But the dogs responded to him like well drilled soldiers. They didn't even touch the food he gave them until he nodded his head. Then it was a free for all and Lecter had them hustled out the door and into the car.

They both sat in the back this time, and watched Will's neighborhood quickly changed into busy streets with tall buildings and massive highways with more overpasses than Dean could count. It was a long ass drive. There was no music and no talking and Lecter was right, the traffic was a bitch. But Lecter never gave any indication that it bothered him, just a slight tightening of his jaw when someone did something particularly stupid or rude.

Dean missed real roads. Ones that actually felt like they were getting you somewhere, not just trapping you in some kind of repeating loop.

The office didn't seem so bad by the time they got there. It was in an old house for starters, not some fancy glass and steel building. And it was huge. They'd stayed in houses smaller than the main room was. And lord, but it was nothing but books and things Sammy could knock over and break. Dean felt the sweat breaking out on the back of his neck just thinking about how much trouble they'd be in if Sam accidently destroyed something. The kid had good intentions but he was clumsy as hell. But Lecter seemed content to follow Sammy around as he checked out the place. The man even took the time to explain each of the weird old looking things he had around his office. It was like being in a museum, but Lecter had no qualms about giving Sam some priceless ancient artifact to handle.

Dean let him. At least their little nerd fest seemed to make both of them happy. Dean felt awkward as fuck standing on the fancy carpet with nothing around him but oddly shaped furniture and weird looking things that were probably supposed to be art. Everything was clean and new looking, even when it was clearly older than even the house. The rest looked like something he'd leave greasy fingerprints on.

And damn but that was a lot of books. There was even a ladder and a balcony to get to all of them and it didn't take long before Sam was scrambling up it, Lecter following sedately behind and helping him. It was a little easier to look around when he didn't have to worry about the doctor seeing him touch anything.

Some of the books were old. Dean could recognize the kind of binding used and knew they weren't massed produced. Half of them weren't in English. Dean had a pretty good grasp on Latin, but his German was rather shitty. At least, he thought that was German. He recognized a couple of words from the titles, but that was about it. A lot of it had -ology in the title, which made sense, he guessed. That was what doctors were supposed to sit around reading, right? But there were also some histories in there. And not the usual American histories about the World Wars or the Civil War. These topics were a hell of a lot more interesting. There was one about witch trails in Europe and another about Blackbeard the Pirate. That sounded pretty cool, actually.

Dean glanced up and around the railing. Lecter had a book down and was showing Sam something in it that had the kid's complete attention. It should have looked stupid, seeing Lecter in his fancy weird ass suit bent over trying to entertain a grubby kid like Sammy. But Sammy had always blended in better with other people than Dean or their dad did. Lecter seemed to know exactly how to talk to Sam. Which was good, cause it kept both of them busy.

Dean walked around the room. It was ridiculously big, but the set up left lots of blind spots for something that was essentially one big open space. Dean could spot several good hiding places and it was easy to examine Lecter's collection without letting the man see him doing so. Most of it was just old fragile looking things. If it had been Will's house, Dean would have put his money on some kind of cursed object being the cause of Will's deer problem. But he'd never heard of someone being haunted by an evil spirit of an object belonging to someone else.

There was a pen knife on Lecter's desk and the damned thing practically glinted in the morning light. Dean could do a lot with a thing like that, but it was on the one surface that was clearly visible from all points in the room. So Dean quietly checked drawers, hoping for a spare tucked away somewhere and forgotten about. There wasn't even as much as an old receipt. Everything was so clean and organized, it was like a show room or a movie set. Dean was tempted to check if the books were even real, but Lecter was too classy a guy to go in for something as lame as fake books. Plus he looked like as big a book worm as Sammy was shaping up to be. Really. The kid was exclaiming about some kind of map like it was latest edition of X-men.

Dean sighed and gave it up for a bad job. He moved into the center of the room where he could sort of see Sammy and flopped down in the only chair that looked decent. He waited. And stared at the wall. And was completely ignored by the two up on the landing. So he climbed back to his feet, found the book about witches. It might have something useful in it. And if he snagged the Blackbeard book too, that was fine. At least it was a cool book.

He never got around to reading it, however. The first book looked dry as dust when he first picked it up. It had a subtitle that was "non-traditional religious practices in pre-industrial revolution Europe" or some shit like that. Dean was familiar enough with fancy talk to know that was just some professor's way of saying he wrote a book about European witches with some pagan lore thrown in for good measure. And while the writing style was snooty and boring as possible, the material was excellent. Dad had brought home a number of books on the supernatural, but it was always nice to find one that talked about the nasty things in the world as if they were real. Sure, this professor dude or whatever was more interested in the historical impact or whatever of supposed witch families in Europe, but at least he talked about them like they were real people and not just something made up to scare kids. Hell, it sounded like people in Europe, at least back in the day, took this shit a lot more seriously than anyone else Dean had met. It made him wonder if there were hunters over there too and if it was different kind of work. It wasn't like evil creatures cared about country lines or anything like that. And they had a whole lot of old shit over there. The cursed objects and ghosts and whatnot probably kept hunters busy all the time.

"Find anything interesting, Dean?" Lecter asked.

Dean startled bad enough he dropped the forgotten Blackbeard book. He kept his grip on the tome about European witches and stared up at the man. He was standing really close to Dean's chair and looked ridiculously tall in that stupid plaid suit. And staring at Dean. Like he was a problem the man planned on fixing.

It was unnerving as fuck and had Dean sitting up straight, pulling the book between him and the man looming before him.

At some point, Lecter and Sam must have finished their nerd fest and descended from the balcony. Sam was sitting at the man's desk, playing with something wooden, pointy and old as fuck looking. Knowing Dean's luck, the brat would put out his own eye with something like that. "Sammy," Dean growled. He didn't have to raise his voice. Sammy immediately dropped it on the desk with a guilty look that meant he knew damn well he shouldn't be playing with something like that. Dean winced at the sharp crack of wood on wood and glanced sideways at the doctor.

The man's face was still blank and then it wasn't. A controlled smile was on his face, the kind Dean had only seen on politicians and crappy small time Sheriffs. "No need to worry, Dean," Lecter assured him. "I invited Sam to explore to his heart's content. It would be beneficial for him to be exposed to new cultures and ideas, wouldn't you say?" and he nodded at the book in Dean's hands.

"Sammy could hurt himself in a room full of pillows," Dean replied without thinking.

That smile was back. "Then it is a good thing that he has his older brother to follow along behind him, is it not?"

Dean stared at him, trying to figure out what the real question was, but damned if he knew. "Yeah, sure," he replied slowly.

Lecter nodded, the smile stretched over his face was wide but still cold somehow. "I am counting on you, Dean," Lecter told him, as if he had any right to how Sammy was looked after. The man reached down and picked up the Blackbeard book. "I am afraid it is almost time for my first appointment for the day. Perhaps you and Sam would like to take some reading material with you in the waiting room? I unfortunately have little else to offer as suitable diversion." He held out the pirate book. "And while I can understand your interest in paganism in Eastern Europe, may I suggest Professor Hinton's work on Blackbeard as more suitable reading material for Sam? I believe you will find her writing style more accessible for sharing."

Dean took the book slowly. "You want me to read something like this to Sammy?

"Do you have better plans for the afternoon?" Lecter replied and there was a bit of something sharp to his tone of voice that was reassuring to Dean. Anything was better than the cool and level haughty tone he usually had. "Children should not be patronized but rather challenged," Lecter continued. "I am certain with your assistance Sam is more than capable of understanding the text."

"You're assumin' I understand it," Dean muttered even as he tucked the book under his arm with the witch one.

"I am," Lecter answered loudly and clearly as if to counterbalance Dean's mumbling.

Dean gave him a dark look, but he was hard to ignore. Sometimes teachers would say shit like that to Dean when he first started at a new school. It never lasted long. Once they got to know him, they cut out with that 'you can do anything' bullshit. Lecter wasn't a bullshit kind of guy. At least not blatantly. Which left Dean feeling confused and off kilter and with no other option really, than to read Sammy the book about pirates and hope it really was as interesting as Lecter made it out to be. And that Dean actually could understand all of it. He swore sometimes these fancy academia types liked putting big words in there just to prove they could.

"And might I suggest," Lecter added in a way that made it damn clear it wasn't a suggestion. "That you keep your other reading material to yourself. While I can appreciate your interest in history, Sam might find it upsetting. As would Will."

Right. Dean had heard of this game and seen it played out by his friends often enough. Dad says yes, but don't tell mom. So even though Will had been the one to take them in, to defend them against the FBI goons, Lecter wanted Dean to "neglect" to share his reading material. It was the kind of thing Dad would box his ears for if he ever tried on him. But on the other hand it was a damn good book and Dean wanted to read more about how Scandinavians came up with tests to separate 'good' witches from bad ones. It might be useful one day. Not that there was any such thing as a good witch, but it might help them prove someone was up to no good.

So Dean nodded and held on to both books. Dr. Lecter wasted no time in moving them to the small waiting room off of the office. He stayed there with them until a middle aged lady in a business suit showed up. Then it was all a carefully orchestrated dance of Lecter guiding her passed the boys without introduction, only to return to firmly lock the only door leading out of the place. Which blew, really. Who else had locks that needed a key even from the inside? Sure, a lot of old houses had stuff like that, but most normal people changed them out for something easier to use. It left Dean feeling boxed in and trapped.

And Dean could swear Lecter, the bastard, was smirking at him the whole time even if his face was the same as ever.

Dean sighed and settled in to learn about what grand theft auto, old school style on the high seas, was like.


	14. Chapter 14

Four fresh bodies in Gainesville, Virginia. That was what Jack had for him on the phone. No details about the bodies or what methods had been used. Not over an unsecured phone line, not with all of the unwanted attention Will had been subjected to lately. But it was enough information to get Will started. He'd driven out to the Shenandoahs many a time for the fishing and the quickest route to and from the mountains led through Gainesville. If someone was coming east and north, say from Tennessee by way of their previous crime scene in Staunton, passing through Gainesville was the best route. And while Jack gave no indication that these bodies fit their killer's MO, Will was still certain the two were connected.

He had pulled Hannibal aside that morning, while the boys had been busy with cleaning up breakfast, and had quickly whispered his fears to him. Maybe the boys should come to Quantico. What if their father came looking for them while they were with Hannibal?

Hannibal had frowned. "While I certainly appreciate being the recipient of your concern and attention," he had said, interrupting Will before he could continue to spin out theories about possible disasters. "I assure you that it is not necessary. I believe your theory is correct, that we have little to fear personally from their father as long as he does not believe we are the evil he is hunting. I have given him no reason to think otherwise." He had raised one eyebrow to eloquently express what he thought of that idea. "I also suspect that my office has more protections to it than your home. And, you dear Will, are also one phone call away, yes?"

The blushing had come back with a force and Will had stared pointedly at the far wall. He was going to have to get used to Hannibal saying one thing and meaning a world more than what simple words suggested. "I'd never get there in time."

"Ah, but I enjoy the thought of you rushing to my rescue," had been the drawled response. "Allow me my romanticism."

And really. What could he say in response to that?

So Hannibal took the boys and Will went to work in Gainesville.

Where four bodies waited for him in a cheap motel room. For a crime scene, it was very clean. The motel itself was a questionable establishment, with pay by the hour rates and the faint smell of beer and vomit. The bodies had been found by the owner when he came to demand more payment. The man was more annoyed by the police cars clogging his parking lot than distressed by the fate of his customers.

Jack had been waiting for him when he arrived, standing calmly by his car, a cup of coffee in one hand. "The room's all yours," he had announced as soon as Will exited the car. "We can talk afterwards." The cool distance wasn't normally how they started, but Will appreciated the calm before the storm. The local police were already waiting outside in order to give him his space. He was going to need it.

The room was small and old and dark. Two women were laid out across the bed. Their clothes were disheveled, but still intact. The blonde's head rested partially on the brunette's arm, as if they'd laid down one right after the other. For the kinds of thing Will usually saw, this one was surprisingly peaceful looking. If you ignored the general squalor and the slit throats.

And if you ignored the two men piled up in the bathroom like refuse. Their throats had also been slashed, though one victim also showed distinct contusions and abrasions scrapes to suggest he at least fought back. None of the others showed any sign of distress.

Will breathed in the smell of ill-repute and death and closed his eyes. The man on the bottom was first. The room had been empty when he was brought here. He was the easy one. The lure was something he wanted, something he didn't question. Killing him had been easy and quick. But the angle of the knife wound – it didn't match the rest of the crime scene. If his killer had come at him from behind, from over the shoulder, then there should have been blood everywhere. Will was far too familiar with the dramatics involved in such an act. He got to see it over and over again in his dreams.

Will's hands twitched. He knew what that blood would feel like gushing out from under his hands, the dull pull of skin –

This body had barely bled. In fact, it was nearly postmortem, the amount of blood. Drugged then? Either enough to stop the heart entirely, or clog the blood severely. The throat had been slashed in the bathroom, judging by what little blood there was. After the body had been moved out of sight. So that the room was ready for its next victim, man number two. The fighter.

It was hard to say why there was such a difference between the two. Both were average height, the first a tad pudgier than the second. Both were white working class men. The two extremes in temperament and outcome, however, bothered Will. Why should one look as peaceful as a lamb and the other a bloody mess? What changed between one and the next? Did the killer make a mistake? Show his hand somehow? It was hard to imagine that a killer so proficient and methodical could have made such a grievous error. Everything about the first kill suggested ease and control. The second was brutality personified.

Will glanced over at his next two victims, still waiting for a more in-depth inspection. No signs of violence. One girl's blouse was half unbuttoned, but there was nothing else to suggest a sexual component. No bruises, no scraps, nothing other than the same slit throat, the same lack of blood, the same peacefulness as if they'd died with no awareness of any danger.

It was almost as if he had switched methods between one victim and the next then back again. One switch might be explained by circumstance. Something changed outside of the killer's control, and in his rage, his method was lost. But typically once that happened what followed afterwards was a continuous increase in violence until the killer was stopped. He had never heard of one killer using such vastly different methods all in the same night.

So there was more than one killer.

The scene shifted into a more logical pattern. The first killer kills quickly, simply, early in the night with the first suitable victim available. It is merely a warm up for his companion. This killer wants a fight. Wants the struggle and takes the time to enjoy it. Now that he's looking, he can see the spot where the second victim was wrestled to the ground. There's where the mess was cleaned up. The room made presentable once more. Then the two girls brought in together. The final act. Back to the first killer, the simplicity, the order.

But to what end?

Different victims, different killers, but the same final act of slitting the throat even though the victims were likely already dead. No showmanship in the placement of the bodies, simply trash left behind or out of the way. Refuse.

Will moved back to the girls. Bent over them. Pictured cutting their throats, the effort involved, where he would have placed his hands. It had been so easy for their killer. A quick, clean motion at the very end. Nothing savored.

"I already have what I need," Will whispered to her.

"Excellent," Jack announced, his voice booming in the small, intimate space. "Then walk me through it."

Will startled but quickly stepped back from the body and pulled his glasses off. He'd seen too much but still not enough. "I wasn't finished yet."

Jack frowned. "You just said you were."

"No. No, he said he was." Will scrambled for words. "I mean, he was finished. By the time he reached the point of slitting their throats, he was already done and ready to move on. He had what he wanted."

"Which was?"

The million dollar question. "I don't know yet."

Jack folded his arms and stared down at the men in the bathroom. It was amazing how easy it was to look at them like that. So many of the bodies they saw were with stretched out in whatever torturous position they had died in or displayed grotesquely in some macabre message. Far too rarely were they neatly piled and waiting for disposal. Like garbage bags after a dinner party.

"Well?" Jack asked.

Will kept his glasses off. He needed time to think, to process without additional information flooding in. "Well what?" he asked then grimace. Lord, he hoped that hadn't sounded as much like a petulant preteen as it had to hm. Dean might be a bad influence after all. "Please be more specific," he grated out.

"Is this killer the father?"

Will slipped his glasses back on and stared at his boss. "I wasn't aware you thought the two connected."

Jack's eyes slid over to him. "LEOs checked the front office security video first. The van we were tracking was seen pulling in and out last night."

"Our victims?" Targets really, possible future victims, but likely the same thing as long as Dean and Sam's father remained at large.

Jack nodded.

Will turned back to the crime scene. Tried to picture himself as Dean's father. The man was slowly becoming a real presence in Will's life. The bits of Dean that were learned, mimicked behaviors – the gaps of what was normal in Sam life– the things they showed and the things they hid, the good parts and the bad, they were all slowly adding up into one person. A father with a machete, that fired a gun with ease and was teaching his oldest boy to do the same even as they hide the truth of the darkness in their lives from his youngest boy. He tried to picture that man calmly slitting these throats. It was possible.

"They didn't know each other," Will started, turning his head slowly from one pile of bodies to another. "The victims. The two men didn't know each other, and the two women likely didn't know either man." Will shook his head. "Besides, I'm sure Dean's father has gone back to working alone now that he no longer has access to Dean. That's what he's most comfortable with."

Jack shifted. "This killer wasn't alone?" he asked, sounding surprised.

Will glanced over at him. "Of course not," he answered. Then he sighed and pointed to the men. "Look at the emotion there. Nothing in one, then more than can be controlled in the second, then back to nothing here. Does that sound like one killer to you?"

"No," Jack grounded out. "It doesn't. Are you saying this has nothing to do with our case?"

Will shrugged. "Hell of a coincidence if not."

"Well, I'm glad we agree on something. So if it wasn't Daddy Dearest, then who was it?"

Will went back to staring at the bodies silently and Jack let him take his time. There was something here, just beyond what Will could see. Something unusual, something just beyond Will's ability to understand. He turned slowly, taking in all of the room. Even as things slipped through his fingers, the possibilities staying blurred just beyond his sight, there was something familiar.

"Bev and I theorized that there is something abnormal about the three victims in Sparta," Will said slowly. "They didn't eat."

Jack gave him a look that spoke volumes.

"Yes, I mean no, I mean obviously. But there was something wrong with them. Different. Doesn't matter what it actually was. Dean's father interpreted it as evil. That's why he targeted them. But the important thing is the victims also viewed it as something to hide. Something they shared only between each other. Something that separated them from everyone else."

Jack waited a moment after he finished speaking before prompting him. "So?"

"So. Only guilty people hide things," Will drawled out before continuing. "Or more accurately, people who feel guilty hide things." He should know. He was the master of hiding things and they both knew it. "But we both know that there can be a world of difference between the two." He paused. "I'm beginning to suspect that isn't the case here this time. I think our victims may also be just as guilty as Dean's father."

"You think our suspect's targets did this," Jack asked baldly, looking around the room once more, taking it in through the filter of this new information.

Will closed his eyes, ran what he had through his mind one more time, before looking back at Jack. "I think it is a distinct possibility."

"Great," Jack exclaimed. "I've got a killer hunting killers."

"Possibly," Will was quick to remind him.

"Your possibilities have a way of being actualities. Would it be too much to hope that they might just kill each other off and leave the rest of the world out of it?"

Will gestured to the room and let it speak for itself.

"Wonderful," Jack growled. With a sigh of disgust, he turned to leave the room but paused in the doorway. "There were four people in the car that State Trooper stopped in Blacksburg."

Will hissed as his eyes darted from one body to the next to the next to the next. "Either they lost two people," he said slowly. "Or we have four killers here instead of two."

"Please tell me you are shitting me," Jack replied. His brief bout of anger seemed to drain out of him completely, leaving behind only the kind of weariness everyone in the BAU knew. "Four? Together? Doesn't that violate some kind of standard?"

"Probably, but we're working outside the norm already," Will agreed. "Look at the victims. One docile man killed one way, another man intentionally goaded into fighting back, likely selected based on that objective. Then one short blond woman, another tall with dark hair. Once we have their information we might find something linking all four, but I doubt it, not in a kill done this quickly. It would take time to gather people like this if they weren't randomly chosen. These people were picked out from a crowd, based on a whim and preference. Does anything here look like a unified method?"

"Four victim types," Jack muttered.

"Equals four killers," Will finished. "At least in this case, it's a very real possibility."

Jack sighed again. "Just what we need. Two cases."

Will grimaced. It was times like these that he understood why Jack pushed him. There was simply too much of this evil out there, waiting for them, happening at every moment of every day. So much of their job was playing desperate catch-up, trying to stop something that had already happened. "Sorry, Jack. For what it's worth," he added. "Dean's father is likely to want to kill only them."

Jack grimaced as well but managed a harsh laugh. "No, that really doesn't help much. But I suppose it limits the possible harm. Right up until he decides we're also an 'evil' he has to fix."

Which was all too true. Dean's father was very committed. Heaven help anyone he saw as a threat to him or his boys.

" _Oh_."

Jack turned around sharply. "What?" he said, his expression intent and his voice demanding.

But Will's stomach felt like it had dropped to somewhere around his feet and it took him a moment to find his words again. "The boys. Their father will kill anything he sees as a threat to them."

"Yes?"

"The hunter hunting the hunted. If you wanted to stop a man like that, to be free, maybe even avenge your fallen comrades, what better place to start than his two children?"

Jack's mouth thinned into a hard line, his eyes focused completely on Will's face even as his mind was likely racing through possibilities and orders to issue.

"After all," Will concluded softly. "Why else follow us up from Staunton instead of running away? They're hunting Dean and Sam."


	15. Chapter 15

"Well, that confirms it," Price cheerfully announced to the room. "Our victims, were in fact, exsanguinated."

Zeller looked up from his own samples. "Bullshit," he said.

"On my mother's honor," Price replied, holding up one gloved hand.

"Exsanguinated."

"Yep."

Zeller looked over his shoulder. "I thought you said they died at the crime scene, Graham," he called out in a tone just shy of snide.

Will sighed but he let himself be pulled into the conversation. "I did and they did."

Price had sat down his tools and was watching the two of them with the nervous kind of excitement he typically showed confrontation. It was as if being limited by his own mild manner, he couldn't help but take enjoyment out of seeing others engage in petty bickering. Zeller, meanwhile, kept his eyes on his work but the tension in his shoulders was a clear indicator that he was very aware of Will presence across the room. "Really," Zeller muttered. "So we just overlooked the gallons of blood that are missing."

"You are assuming it was not put to use."

"Oh boy," Price said with a grimace. But he went back to work with a focused expression. "This is going to be another doozy, isn't it?"

Beverly glanced up from her own analysis of the wallet of one of the victims. "I'm probably going to regret this, but do you have a theory what they did with the blood?"

Will looked up from his phone. He was watching the clock, waiting for the break between Dr. Lecter's appointments to call the other man. They were still processing all of their evidence and really had nothing more than theories to run on at this time. It wasn't enough to risk interrupting Hannibal at work. Will didn't want to disturb him during something so important. Sure, the other man had given him his personnel cell phone number, the one not used for patients, and told him he may use it whenever needed. But that was for emergencies and they weren't quite at the emergency level yet. Hannibal would be perfectly safe for another half hour or so until his lunch break. So would the boys. There was no reason to worry.

Besides, there was work to do. So Will tucked his phone away out of sight and let his mind sink back into the case.

"It's a ritual, of some kind," Will began with "Not necessarily in the religious sense, but the way families have traditions or specific activities they see as intrinsically theirs in a possessive and self-identifying sense. We have at least two killers, likely traveling in the company of two others, all four of whom are related to each of the kills attributed to Dean and Sam's father."

"Cults," Bev muttered. "Great."

Will nodded. "But this one's smarter than most of the ones you hear about. They've been very careful to keep their existence quiet."

"Except the kids' father figured it out," Bev added. She'd asked after Sam and Dean as soon as he'd seen her. She had nephews about their age and had been entertained by Sam's enthusiasm for dogs.

"Yes," Will agreed, pleased with the opening and the participation. "Whatever it is, he found out about it and reacted violently to what he perceived as an evil that must be destroyed."

"Not too far off the mark with that one," Price agreed cheerfully. When everyone glanced over at him he blushed slightly but shrugged his shoulders. "What? We have four bodies on the table. Sounds like evil at work to me."

Zeller scowled. "Evil as a concept is archaic and detrimental to logical forensic reasoning." His tone was still petulant but gone was the thinly veiled hostility and in its place was something clearly more conversational.

"Doesn't mean it's not accurate!" Price argued with a smile. He pointed with his scalpel. "Just because we cannot operate on the rational of a moralistic determined evil does not ergo mean it's absence in the practical world."

Zeller turned with a grin and pointed towards cold storage. "Crazy guy with a machete."

Price deflated. "Well, yes, also nutz-o, but still! I'll take bat-shit crazy out to kill other bat-shit crazies over whatever killer happened to last night's drunks."

"They were inebriated?" Will demanded.

Price shrugged. "We'll have to wait on toxicology to say for sure, but going by the smell and the contents of their stomachs, yes, I'd wager three sheets to the wind, fall down drunk. Really, professional drinkers these ones."

"That gives us something they had in common," Will said to himself.

"Bar regulars?" Bev suggested.

Will nodded. "Hopefully the LEOs will turn up something. If they were regular drinkers we might get an ID on them. It would give us an idea of where they may have met their killers. We've got a trail of bread crumbs to follow, we just need to find a starting point."

Someone sighed in either frustration or weariness, but everyone got back to work. Four bodies meant a lot to process but so far nothing definitive had been found. Will pulled out his phone again and checked the time. Still not yet. Back to waiting and thinking and watching the others work.

Zeller growled suddenly and pushed back from his work station. "Alright. So what do they do with the blood?" he demanded. "You rambled on about cults and rituals, but where the hell is all of it?"

Will startled but pulled himself back in quickly. He didn't look at Zeller. He didn't need to in order to know what expression the man was making. He hated asking Will's opinion on things. He thought it was working backwards, a direct violation of what he saw as proper police work. Plus he simply did not like Will as a person. So Will kept his eyes down and tried to make his thoughts as clear and concise as possible. The problem was he hadn't quite worked out this part yet.

"The first question, rather, is whether or not it is the act of taking the blood that serves as the ritual, or if the blood itself is necessary for the ritual to be conducted. They bleed four people. Even if there are only two doing the actual killing, that still an equal number of bodies to members in their little group. They completed this process cleanly. Only a few drops to be found on clothing or the surrounding area."

Zeller made a harrumphing noise but Will ignored him as usual.

"Which leads us to the second most interesting question. Why slash their throats?" Will paused to gather his thoughts. He ignored the looks of disbelief. It was too simplistic a thing for an investigator in the BAU to treat all actions as no more than the products of a deranged mind. In all madness there was a hint of method. Slit throats was a very specific method.

"These look post mortem," Price offered, pausing to take an even closer look at the carnage. He'd already examined them once and photographed them, but he liked to wait to the end of his analysis to offer specific conclusions.

"Well," Bev weighed in. "If it's part of the ritual and not a means to an end, then the mutilation might be significant."

Will shook his head. "This doesn't feel that way. If you were going to take the time to carve up a body after meticulously draining it of most liquids, wouldn't you want it displayed in a manner more significant?"

"Hard to say, not being a serial killer," Zeller muttered under his breath but everyone else ignore him.

"So not communicative," Bev agreed.

"Likely not."

"And not some sick form of jollies."

"Nothing to suggest that yet, but we can't rule it out."

"Well, what else is left?" she asked, then answered her own question. "Hiding the evidence."

Will glanced over at her, his eyes just briefly meeting hers as he managed a small smile. "Seems probable."

And just like that, all of their attention shifted to the victims' throats. Chairs were pushed back and other work forgot as they each moved to a body and leaned over to examine the damage.

"They sure did make a hash job out of it," Price commented mildly.

Will hummed in agreement. "Curious that someone so careful would make such a mess."

"Huh."

They all looked up at Zeller. That was not his usual sound of protest whenever Will started theorizing. He noticed the stillness in the room and stood up straight. "There's a puncture wound on this one," he said, pointing. Quickly they all gathered around, Price snagging a lamp and magnifier and swinging it into place.

"Does appear so," he agreed. He moved to get the camera and took more pictures. "Hard to see with the rest of the mess, but it's not the ripping characteristic of the weapon used for the rest of the wound."

"So they drained the blood from the neck?" Bev offered.

"Kinky," Zeller joked.

"Vampiric," Will said simultaneously. The three of them stared at him. "What? Our first killer hunts 'evil' and 'monsters.' What do you think he'd make out of a group of people that drain their victims of their blood from their necks?"

"Well shit," Bev agreed, straightening up and cracking her back.

Price was still moving from one body to the next, doing an even more thorough search of their neck wounds now that he had something specific to look for. "Very Van Hellsing."

"Still a crazy psychopath," Zeller reminded them in a sing-song voice.

Bev continued to stare at the bodies. "How do you think he knew? The kids' dad?"

Will shrugged with a frown. "I'm not sure yet. Dean won't talk about it and they seem to have kept Sam in the dark. But Dean's belief in monsters is very real and a strong motivation for much of what he does." He managed a small smile for her. "Right now he's convinced something evil is after me, and that I need his protection."

Bev smiled back, her grin a little crooked but genuine. "That's kind of cute, in a creepy sort of way."

"He's a good kid," Will agreed fondly.

"Yeah." She wasn't arguing with him, but it was clear from the way she carefully replied that she wasn't really agreeing either. At least not full heartedly. "He probably is. Good kids get caught up in nasty shit all the time." She left it unsaid that such things often ruined them for life. They both knew it. It was a common characteristic in criminals.

"He deserves better than this," Will insisted. "Certainly better than to have whoever did this to our victims coming after him and his little brother."

"Yeah, no, of course," she agreed easily and he knew she meant it. She waved off the idea that she might have meant anything else. "Don't worry. We've got a slew of evidence now. We'll catch them. And I'm sure we can keep the boys safe until all of this is over. After all," she added with a grin. "It's not often we know exactly who the killer is after. We'll be prepared. You still going to keep the kids at your house?"

Will frowned and thought it over. There were risks and advantages to both possibilities. If he brought them here, the base would provide more physical protection. Check points and guards and everything else that went with the very heart of the FBI. But that also likely meant turning them over to a stranger, possibly even someone more of Jack's frame of mind. That wouldn't end well, he knew it. As soon as Dean decided to reject what was being offered to him, or even worse perceived it as a threat, he'd find a way to get Sam out of there. And if he tried to run – no matter how tough Dean might be, the very thought of the two boys out there on their own was enough to make Will feel light headed. No, they were much better off someplace they knew and trusted and where Will could do everything in his power to make sure nothing got near to them.

"They're better off with me," he told her once he reached a decision. "The dogs are good about letting me know if anyone comes near the house. And I will insist that Hannibal go home."

Bev's eyebrows shot up and she immediately grabbed his arm and hustled him back to her work station. It effectively moved them to the other side of the room and as far from Price and Zeller as possible. "William," she said, drawing out his name in a way that didn't bode well for him. "Did Lecter spend the night last night?"

"Maybe?" There were perfectly legitimate reasons as to why he did. Hannibal laid them all out logically the night before. Will hadn't been thinking about any of those reasons when he had agreed however, and to be honest, he couldn't much remember them now.

Bev stared at him before slowly smirking the way she usually only did when she found that one piece of evidence that was going to catch them their killer. "You're blushing," she announced but thankfully quiet enough that it wouldn't carry beyond their little huddle. "And not in the 'I have a fever and might keel over at any moment' kind of way. Defiantly a different kind of blush. It's a good look on you. Nice job, Graham."

"What? No!" Will's face burned in what he was sure must be a blotchy mess. Bev's eyebrow went back up, eloquently expressing her opinion on his bullshit. "Okay, yes, maybe, but it's not like that."

"Really," she drawled before frowning. "And which way is it exactly? Do I need a shovel?"

"What?" Will asked in confusion, trying to keep up with her sharp turns. "The case?" Because, god, he'd like nothing more than to talk about the case right now.

"No, stupid." And really, it was remarkable how unusual it was for him to have someone call him that and how much he really didn't mind. "We're talking about Lecter. You and Lecter. Do try to focus. Now, is the guy actually your doctor or just a friend?" She quickly held up a hand before he could answer. "And don't quote me regs about how I'm not supposed to ask about your medical history, your private business and all that nonsense, but we're talking about your love life and I have a right to know."

Will didn't know whether to be impressed with her gumption or offended at the violation of his privacy. He settled for a mixture of both and gave her the frown that usually sent people away.

She just stared back at him. "What? I have no love life. You think this job leaves time for a love life? The only options we have are office romances. So, share." And then she stared at him.

He could always walk away. It wouldn't be difficult. And lord knew he'd done it enough times with prying analysis and psychologists. But Bev wasn't either of those. She was, maybe, the closet thing he had to a friend – other than whatever it was Hannibal was to him now. He sighed to let her know just how ridiculous this all was before taking off his glasses and cleaning them slowly. If they were going to have this conversation then they were not going to have it while he could see her face clearly. "Hannibal is not my doctor."

"Good." Bev nodded. "So no need for the shovel yet. How long?"

"Last night?"

"Well. Alright then, Graham."

"Please stop saying things like that."

She grinned. "Like what?"

He waved, trying to encompass all of the things she was and was not implying. He wasn't so good with words when he was talking to people other than Hannibal. "He's my friend."

"Yeah, we all noticed," she drawled playfully but then her smile faded a little. "So, when you say it's not like that, is it just a friend thing? Because there's nothing wrong with that, but I didn't have you pegged as the casual sex kind of guy."

Will rubbed at his temples. "This happened last night, Beverly. Give me a chance to process things, would you?" He slipped back on his glasses, ready to move back into the real world and get back to work.

Bev held up her hands in mimicry of surrender even though he was fairly certain she didn't know what the word meant. "Okay. Fair enough. When are you seeing him again?" She was back to smiling slyly. "Is he spending the night again tonight?"

"No," Will answered firmly. "I won't have him there if there's even a chance this might lead to violence. I'm not dragging him into this. We were going to have dinner at his place but I'll call and cancel. He'll understand."

She narrowed her eyes. "Were you going to take the boys with you on your dinner date or where you going to leave them at the house. Because frankly, I don't know which option would be worse."

He gave her a dirty look back before shrugging sheepishly. "I was going to try to find a babysitter?"

"For the children of one of the psychopaths we're currently hunting."

Will grimaced. Okay, it wasn't his best plan. But in his defense, the situation was not as critical or dangerous at the time he and Hannibal had been discussing it in his living room. And the idea of more had been too much to resist. "I was just thinking about it," he explained. "Obviously, it's no longer an option."

"Oh, Lord," Bev exhaled. "I am about to say something, and I want it clear between you and I that this is one hell of a big favor I am doing for you. Hella big. And I will be cashing in on it at some point, do not doubt that. But I can stop by after work and keep an eye on the brats for at least a few hours. Not overnight, mind you, but if you guys want to be cute and have your little date, then I can cover for you."

Will stared back at her. "I wasn't going to ask you," he stated.

"I know. Which is why I'm offering." She held up her hand to stop him from saying anything more. "And do not forget, you _will_ owe me, William Graham." She pointed at him until he slowly nodded his head.

"I don't know if this is a good idea," he muttered.

"Probably not, but I can handle it. Can you?" she asked before turning sharply back to her work, finished with their conversation and anything Will might have wanted to add.

"Definitely a bad idea."


	16. Chapter 16

Will slipped out into the hallway and pulled his phone out once more. Enough time had passed that it should be safe to call Hannibal. Thank god. He needed to know the other man was safe. Even if it had only been a few hours since they last saw each other. He was aware of the irony. It ought to be awkward talking to Hannibal now. So much had changed in 24 hours, and Will wasn't certain what they were to each other anymore. But Hannibal had always been a good friend to him, even when Will hadn't wanted a friend. Despite this shift in their relationship, that felt like something that had not changed. That never would.

He hit speed dial and waited for two rings. Then Hannibal's voice was a warm rumble in his ear, one that seemed to drift through the pathways connected to his brain and wrap around him like a net holding him together.

"Thank you for calling," was the first thing he said after Will's name.

It felt a little backwards but also natural that that was how they started their conversation, not how they ended it. Will couldn't help it. He grinned and said "thanks for picking up." It was probably the closest thing to flirting he was going to manage.

"Always," Hannibal returned.

Will was smiling at the wall across from him. "How are the boys?"

"As well as can be expected," was the quick reply and Will appreciated the sensibility of it. There was no reason to pretend things were better than they were or to make a maudlin production out of the reality of the situation. Neither did Hannibal leave him with only that to work with. After a pause where Will could imagine him leaning back and gathering his thoughts, Hannibal told him about their day. "Sam has been as curious as ever. He has an inherent love for the natural sciences. He was fascinated by some of my autonomy models, and of all things, my atlas of the Chesapeake waterways."

Will hummed. "Maps would be something familiar but still filled with the promise of something more."

"Escapism," Hannibal agreed.

"Or a sense of adventure. Hard to say with a little boy." It was a very real possibility and only one of many, but the optimism of it made Will smile again. He shifted his body around to hide it, no longer leaning back against the wall but instead curling around his phone as if he wanted to make himself smaller. It worked for getting the occasional passing lab tech to politely ignore him. "What else?" he asked, eager for more.

Hannibal hummed. "He was also particularly fascinated with my collection of batons and aarnguats."

Will's attention was distracted by the strong accent on the last word, and the way it flowed naturally out of Hannibal's mouth. It took him a moment to realize he still had no idea what it meant. "I'm sorry, your what?"

Hannibal chuckled softly into the phone. "An aarnguat. An archeological item believed by certain cultures to have healing properties. I confess, I have somewhat of a weakness for collecting historical items meant to heal the sick."

And of course Will had noticed Hannibal's extensive collection of artifacts. The man's living and working spaces were nearly overflowing with examples of art and ancient cultures. But the first few times Will had visited, he had been more interested in categorizing and labeling Hannibal as a professional. What he had seen, what he had paid attention to, was only what he needed to in order to control that relationship. He was a little embarrassed to realize he had never corrected the oversight.

"You collect medical paraphernalia."

"That is one way to look at it," Hannibal said. "Though my collection follows more closely the art and interpretation of man's relationship to the natural world than the more harrowing history of the development of modern triage."

"You collect mystical medical paraphernalia."

"Indeed."

That grin was back. He was looking forward to his own opportunity to go through Hannibal's collection with him. But there would be plenty of time for that. "How's Dean?" He hadn't missed the way Hannibal had focused on Sam. It was normal for certain preferences to develop. And lord knew, Dean went out of his way to make things difficult. But Will felt a certain measure of solidarity with him.

After all, Will knew what it was like to look at the world and see demons.

"Dean is managing," Hannibal informed him.

"What did he think of your collection?" Will prodded, hoping for more insight.

"He indicated no interest," Hannibal told him. "He did, however, take advantage of my distraction to help himself to several of my books."

Will winced. "I'm sure he didn't mean to cause any trouble."

"To the contrary," Hannibal drawled but his voice was more playful than offended. "I am certain Dean excels at causing trouble and takes pleasure in it. But in this matter he was no trouble. I would not begrudge him his interest. Quite the opposite. I suspect the opportunity to expand his horizons will only result in a positive outcome for our sake and his own."

Will thought about that possibility, about all the possibilities. He didn't fool himself into thinking his presence in their life would be anything other than temporary, but it was pleasing to think he and Hannibal might be able to give them a good framework to continue on with. Unless a blood relative could be identified, the boys would likely end up in the system and subject to everything that came with that. A love of books and learning was hardly the worst thing they could be given. And a few good memories could sometimes be just as lasting as any nightmare.

Hannibal let him have his moment to think, the two of them staying silent on the phone. But finally he asked "did Jack have you at a crime scene today?"

So much for the peace and quiet. "Yes."

It went without saying that only so much could be discussed over the phone. The rest would have to wait until they were face to face and could discuss and debate the meaning of everything together. Work out the answer to this latest puzzle together. Hannibal picked his next words with care.

"Will it impact our young guests?"

Will closed his eyes and tried to block out the image of Dean or Sam on an examine table with their throat slashed open. "Yes." He took a deep breath. "But not in the way you're thinking."

There was quiet for a moment. "Oh?"

"Hannibal, they're going to come after the boys." And now that the worst part was out, it was like he couldn't stop. "They can't get the father. He's too prepared and he knows what they are. Or what he thinks they are. That they're killers. They can't get him, but they can get the boys. Hannibal."

"Calm down, Will," Hannibal instructed firmly. "No one will hurt them. We won't let them." The words were heavy and solid and Hannibal let them sink into Will like a warm weight settling across his shoulders before continuing. "What makes you think these killers will come for the boys?"

Will scrubbed at his face with one hand, pushing his glasses out of the way so that he could rub at one eye until lights and spots danced in his vision. It hurt, but it helped ground him. Separate out his visions of what had happened and what these killers wanted to happen. "Their pattern has changed, dramatically. The boys' father has backed them into a corner, and up until now they've been running, keeping to low populated areas that made it easier to go unnoticed in. But now they're moving to fight back and the boys are the weak spot. Hannibal, they were in Gainesville."

Hannibal hummed softly, a meaningless noise that he only did to let Will know he was still on the line, still there with him, working through the problem. "He could be tracking the father. We suspected he might try to retrieve the boys. If he followed them, it is possible they followed him."

Will shook his head. "Why now? Why go after him when up until now everything they have done has been avoidance?"

"He may have given them no other choice," Hannibal replied. It was a clear kind of logic, separated from any emotion or implication. It was entirely possible, and it had Will thinking once more of the second male victim. The level of violence used. The way it easily could have been avoid but was instead intentionally instigated. Their suspect had wanted his victim to fight back. But he wasn't the leader of this little group. The first kill hadn't been his, and he had had no part in the last two. If he had had enough influence to control the group, he would not have passed on the opportunity to play with the other victims.

But Will couldn't explain that over the phone. "The person in control of this," he said slowly. "That person would not allow him to manipulate them like that. This was a logically thought out choice."

"I believe you, Will."

And just like that all the air went out of Will's lungs. He had never much cared before, whether or not someone believed his interpretations of a crime scene. He knew what made sense and what didn't. Sure, there was always the drive to catch the bad guy, to do his job, but that was it. It was his job. This was something that had come into his home, that was coming after people he knew and cared about.

He needed Hannibal to believe him and Hannibal did.

"The boys – "

"Are safe here with me," Hannibal promised.

And Will wanted to believe him, but the things he saw, the monsters he hunted where as scary as anything Dean could imagine, and the thought of them coming near Hannibal and disturbing his calm, orderly world of fine arts and gentlemanly ways would be too much. Will needed Hannibal to be safe so that Hannibal could keep him sane.

"Hannibal," Will started, not sure what to say. He wanted the other man to understand him without the words but Hannibal had never been the type to let things go unsaid. Not between the two of them. He'd wait until Will found the right words or work with him to pull them out. "This is serious," he tried.

"As am I."

Will huffed out a laugh that was part groan. "I know. But these killers, they're skilled, well-practiced and confident."

"Again, as am I."

Will gritted his teeth and hated this distance that made communication so difficult. But before he could argue there was a sigh from the other end of the line.

"Will, that was meant to be an attempt at humor."

"Oh. Right." He should have realized that. Hannibal had certainly never flinched at Will's own brand of dark humor.

"Poorly timed, perhaps," Hannibal agreed graciously. "I merely meant to reassure you. While I may not have the same experience and capabilities as you, I am not helpless. Or one to be caught unaware."

"Yes," Will agreed suddenly, his mind veering off course almost too fast to keep up with. "Yes, that's it. They count on their prey to be completely unaware. Ignorant. Blind. That's why the boy' father is such a threat. He sees them. It's so much harder hunt something that hunts you back. They're used to prey that can't fight back, not until it's too late."

"And that's why you suspect they will go after the boys and not their father."

"Yes! Exactly!" Will smiled. "It's what I would do," he added without thinking. He glanced around quickly, making sure no one else had heard even as his mouth babbled on. "If I were them, I mean. If I were the kind of killer that kills in this manner, that what I would do. Not actually me."

"Will," Hannibal cut him off, his voice curling with amusement when so many others reacted awkwardly or distressed. "I know very well that you would never do anything to harm the boys. I have not forgotten our discussion of the night you found Sam – and what you would have allowed Dean to do. And while I do not approve of your foolish disregard for your own wellbeing, and I will step in if I deem it necessary, I can recognize your commitment to protecting Sam. You and I will not allow any harm to come to him."

Will breathed in deeply. "How can you be so certain?" he asked. He wanted to deny it, to demand Hannibal justify such a belief, a part of him so sure it could not be true. But enough of him believed in Hannibal that it was hard not to doubt even his own assessment of himself.

"We will not allow it," Hannibal replied as if it were as simple as that. "You are capable of much more than you realize, Will," he said, suddenly much more intense than the calm assurance Will was so accustomed to. "You hardly even know it, but I promise you, you and I together are more than enough to handle whatever may come after Sam and Dean. We will simply have to be prepared for what that may be required of us."

Will nodded silently. He knew Hannibal couldn't see it, but it seemed natural to believe he knew. "I guess our dinner plans will have to change."

"That is most unfortunate," Hannibal replied. And he sounded more like someone had spoiled one of his carefully planned extravagant dinner parties and not as if their simple last minute idea of a meal together had been changed. "There is no one you would trust with the care of the boys for a few hours? I would very much like to have you in my home," he added in a voice as calm and steady as a deep lake but that still had Will shivering and curling deeper into himself to hold that feeling tight to his chest and hidden from the rest of the world.

Hannibal continued on as if he had no awareness of the effect of his voice. "I had hoped to share some of the old protection charms my family was well known for. I thought you might find the ritual calming. And it has been a very long time since I have had someone I could share them with."

Will's chest actually ached. It was almost hard to breath in the way he typically associated with being too far in to a killer's head, except this time it was a place he wanted to be. Wanted very badly. Hannibal had once accused him of coveting family, and like most things, he had been right. Will wanted that connection to another human being and to have it be Hannibal reaching out to give it to him was almost too much. Like a physical pressure that was both grounding and at the same time threatening to crush him under something he couldn't see or understand yet.

"I have nothing to give in return," he said, his thoughts coming out unfiltered and unrestrained.

"You have more than you know," Hannibal replied firmly. "Is there no one who could guard the boys for the few hours I would keep you away?"

Will chewed on his lip. "Beverly offered."

Hannibal hummed thoughtfully. "And do you trust her?"

"Of course."

"With the boys?"

That one was harder, but the answer was still the same. "Yes. She understands. That they're important. So yes, I suppose I do."

"Will, I would very much enjoy the privilege of your company tonight. Would you share of my table and my hospitality?"

And again, there was only one possible answer. "Yes."


	17. Chapter 17

Lecter let them back into the main room in between his patients. Sam immediately started trying to tell him all about the pirate book the man already owned. He put up with it with more patience than Dean would have expected before pointedly leading Sam over to a collection of works on American folklore.

"I am not a native of this land," he explained. "So it behooved me to study the founding beliefs and unconscious memories of its people when I decided to settle here. I believe you will find this suitable for your taste, Sam. And I have every faith that you can handle the text on your own."

Challenge issued and accepted. Sam would hear of nothing else but for him to try reading the book on his own. The book was more artistic than literary, so Sam could probably figure out the main gist on his own. Dean was more than happy to leave him to it. It gave him a chance to read the book Lecter had given to him without having to worry about Will seeing it. Lecter was right in that that was a conversation Dean did not want to have to have yet. He needed to find some way to convince Will that the supernatural was real and a very serious immediate threat to him, but he also knew better than to start waving questionable books under the guy's nose. People tended to get twitchy about that sort of thing. Dean had figured that out the hard way and now knew it was better to have a library book "walk off" with him than to check it out and leave a record. Checking out a bunch of occult books was the fastest way to have a school counselor on your ass.

So Sammy struggled through his book and Dean devoured his until Lecter's cell phone rang. The man was up and out of his seat almost immediately, moving across the room as he pulled it out of his pocket. "Please stay were you are," Lecter told them in a voice that was nothing but polite and with a look at Dean that was as clear a command as any. He slipped out into the waiting room in a reversal of roles that was more than a bit odd. The sound of Will's name was the only thing to drift through the door before it was mostly shut, only a thin sliver of space keeping the two rooms open and connected.

Dean had a moment of hoping that meant Will was on his way to get them or that they were about to head back to the other man's house. Lecter wasn't bad, Dean supposed. He'd certainly been around worst adults. But Will was comfortable the way so few people were, like Dean didn't have to explain things to him or try to hide them. It was just easy and Dean was startled to realize just how much that was true and how quickly he missed it.

But the moment passed. He was scrambling out of his seat and across the room as silently as the dead. Sammy didn't even look up from his book as Dean scurried around the stupidly large desk and got both hands on the first drawer. He slowed immediately, both hands braced carefully and gently eased the drawer open without a sound. Pens, clips, papers and pencils. And most importantly, a pen knife. Or pencil knife. Or whatever the stupid thing was called. It was wicked sharp, steel at the least and possible even silver plated going by how fancy a blade it was. It was also small enough that it was child's play slipping it into his sleeve, between one layer of shirt and the next with the blade placed carefully flat against his arm and held in place by the cuff of his sleeve. For the long term, it seriously sucked as a hiding place. But it was enough for now. He was cautious to ease the drawer back in with as much care as he had had pulling it out. But as soon as the edges were once more level, he was diving back around the table and dropping casually into his chair, book in his lap and spine boneless as if he had never moved.

A matter of seconds, only. And sure enough, he saw the flicker of light as Lecter peeked around the corner to check up on them. He must not have seen anything suspicious because his conversation continued.

Dean breathed carefully and evenly through his nose. He had salt and now he had a knife. Now he just needed to identify what kind of nasty was after Will, and possibly Sammy too, and take care of it before Dad came for them.

Dean could handle this. He was a hunter. And Will and Sammy needed him.

The phone conversation went on for some time. And Dean didn't read a word while it did, even though his book was filled with interesting things he'd never heard of before, like that male witches existed in Europe and that the Estonians used to _always_ burned their dead because they knew that spirits could get stuck as ghosts. Sure, Dean wasn't entirely sure where Estonia was, but it sounded like people there probably knew a thing or two. But as cool as that was, it didn't help any right now and he had more than enough problems to keep his mind busy.

The knife was like a hot brand against his arm and he debated how to hide it next. His boot would be a good place if he could get it wedged in safely, but he'd need more privacy for that and he wasn't sure how much time he would have before Hannibal got done talking and came back. It wasn't like the guy would announce himself before stepping back into the room. And if he saw Dean fiddling with his boot, he might get suspicious.

Still, the wait seemed to last forever. Dean was very aware that despite how much he might like Will, Will was still trying to catch their dad and arrest him. If no news was good news, Dean wasn't sure what to make of a long private phone call. It also didn't escape him that the whole conversation might be nothing more than the two of them canoodling with each other. Did grown men do that? They certainly made eyes at each other like they thought they were being subtle but were really failing epically.

Finally Lecter returned. For a moment there was a pleased expression on his face before it was once more blank and even. "Will is finished for the day," he announced. "As am I. I will return you to his home in Wolf Trap. If you would like to take your books with you, you may do so. I only ask that they be returned in the condition they left in."

"Can I take more than one?" Sam asked, being the dork that he was.

Lecter nodded. "Of course. Please make your selections." And while Sam darted off to gather whatever had caught his attention, Lecter came to a stop by the arm chair Dean was wedged into. "I trust you will remember to be circumspect with your own reading choices."

"Yeah, I get it." Dean snapped the book shut and tucked it carelessly under his arm. He'd found that people tended not to pay attention to things if you acted like they didn't matter. Try to hide something and they were on you like white on rice. Act like it was nothin' and nobody cared.

Lecter watched him for a moment like he understood before nodding. "Will has arranged for suitable company for you for tonight."

"As opposed to you?" Dean couldn't help but say back. Which was maybe sort of a dick thing to say so he followed it up with "I thought you were coming over" as casually as he could to try to make it better. Lecter had given every indication that he planned on sticking close to Will. And while potentially embarrassing, and not all together comfortable for Dean, it did mean there was someone else watching out for the guy. Creepy things tended not to like an audience if they could avoid it. Having a full house wouldn't protect them, but it might buy them some time.

And yeah, that was defiantly what smug looked like on Lecter. "Will will be accompanying me to my house for dinner."

"Is that safe?" Dean asked quickly, then flushed. Okay, maybe not the question to ask about two grown men. "I mean, it's just, stuff is happening and we ought to stick together. It'd be safer if we stayed as a group."

Lecter stared at him with no expression. No anger at the question. No blatant disbelief. Nothing. "I can assure you," he finally said. "That Will is as safe as he can be while in my company." The man said it like a promise and Dean wanted to believe him but he also knew better than to trust anyone else with the safety of the people he cared about. Lecter seemed to understand something of that from staring at Dean, because the next thing he said was "you are very loyal, very quickly, Dean." And yet, somehow, that didn't really sound like that good of a thing when Letcher said it.

Dean shrugged. "Not really," he muttered back. It wasn't like he had a lot of friends or something. But Will was nice to them and he needed help. That was all Dean needed to know.

"Indeed," Lecter replied. "And while I would certainly not wish to discourage your attachment to Will, I find I must caution you to keep in mind that what is best for Will may not match your expectations. What will you do then, Dean?"

Dean looked away and kept his eyes focused on the weird statue across the room while his thoughts tumbled over one another. It felt weird talking to someone who knew what he and his dad were trying to do but also didn't believe them and yet still wanted to talk about it calmly. It made him feel exposed so much more than the alternatives. He was used to people thinking they were crazy, but usually that got expressed in a lot of yelling and threats. Dean knew how to handle those. And by the time someone did know and believe them, things were usually so dicey at that point there wasn't a whole lot of time for standing around discussing it. No one calmly asked him questions like they were really interested in what he had to say.

He didn't know how to answer. He didn't even know if he had an answer.

"There's something," he started. "It's not – Things aren't the way they should be and Will needs help."

Lecter nodded slowly, looking not at all surprised to find out that things were exactly peachy keen for his friend. Then again, anyone with eyes should've been able to see that something was wrong with the guy. "I can agree with both of those things," Lecter told him. "As his friend, I am trying to help Will as much as possible. The question is not about Will. The question is what will you do, Dean, when confronted with Will's wellbeing versus the beliefs you have grown up with. Which will you defend? The person or the notion?"

Dean's eyes jerked back to Lecter. He wasn't sure what exactly the man was asking him, but he understood enough to know the answer mattered. A lot. They were talking about abstract things now, were they? "I don't know," he whispered, hating that he didn't and hating that the question existed in the first place.

"Then I suggest you take some time to think about it. For your sake as much as Will's and Sam's."

And wasn't that what Will had said? When they first met, when Dean was half out of his mind with worry and didn't know what to make of the weird FBI agent that wouldn't let them go. Will said one day Dean was going to have to choose between hunting and Sam. His whole life, the two things had practically been the same task. Protect Sam the way Dad protected other people.

But if it came down to it, if it was Sammy or somebody else, Dean knew he was always going to pick Sammy. And if that meant picking between hunting and Sam, then he must have his answer.

What scared him was the idea that one day that question might be more than just talk.


	18. Chapter 18

The ride back into Virginia was quiet. Or at least, Dean was quiet. He had a hell of a lot to think about and for once Lecter wasn't staring at him and watching him and picking him apart slowly. He had Sam to thank for that. For while Dean might have stayed quiet in the back seat, Sam was nothing but questions and comments and endless rambling.

Lecter might be a bit creepy and defiantly a snob, but he put up with Sammy's yammering like a freakin' saint.

It was over a two hour drive from one city to the next, most of it spent sitting bumper to bumper with the guy in front of them. Dean was used to being in the car a lot, preferred it most of the time, but this blew seriously. Watching cars literally inch their way forward had him wanting to break something.

"Fuck, this is annoying," Dean had exclaimed at one point.

"Language, Dean," Hannibal had replied firmly but without sounding pissed. "While this company may be informal, you should learn now while you are still young to better regulate yourself to fit your environment."

Fuck language, but whatever. "Seriously, man. How do you put up with this? And you're driving back again tonight? I'd wanna kill something doing this all the time."

"Perhaps not the comment to make given your current situation," Lecter had replied with an honest to god smirk. Bastard. Dean didn't know whether to be impressed that the guy had the balls to make jokes about what they thought Dad was doing or just be pissed at him for making light of it. "It is an unfortunate necessity, however. I wish to see Will, so I will make the drive. Fortunately, it will be significantly improved by the time he and I make our return trip."

"You are coming back, right?" And fuck if he hadn't sounded like Sammy asking about Dad.

The look Lecter had given him in the rearview mirror made it clear he recognized it. "Yes, Dean, we will. Though it may be rather late. I believe you are correct that it would be best if the four of us remained close together at this time. For everyone's best interests."

Which had left Dean blushing and feeling like a kid, so he kept his mouth shut the rest of the ride back.

When they pulled up to Will's house there were now two cars out front. There was Will's sad looking sedan, which could seriously use a wash and probably more if Dean ever got the chance, and next to it was a slightly beat up looking small SUV that was missing spare tire on the back and looked like someone had scratched the whole bottom half from end to the other. Dean had seen marks like that before in some of the more rural places they had stayed, but usually it was only on old clunkers that were meant to be used hard.

Then there was the sound of barking. Sam was already out of the car and awkwardly trying to hurry forward while his arms were full of books. Leave it to the brat to pick out more than he could carry. Dean took pity on him and scooped the lot out of his arms just in time for the horde to escape from the house and try to trample the kid. Dean knew it was coming but he still flinched a little. But there was nothing but delighted squeals coming from the pile of fur, so he made himself ignore it and walk towards the house. A little shuffling had his book safely hidden under Sam's.

Will was on the porch by the time Dean reached it. The dark haired woman from before was standing behind him and kept glancing back and forth between Dean and his brother, but Will was focused on him. "How did the day go?" he asked solemnly.

It was a serious question so Dean gave him a serious answer. He shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

Will managed a smile. "You found some books."

"Sammy's," Dean explained. He stayed at the bottom of the steps. While he recognized the lady as one of the FBI agents that was there when he and Sam got caught, he really didn't know her. She seemed comfortable standing on Will's porch, though. She had both hands in her pockets, her shoulders loose and her face relaxed. And Will didn't seem to mind her hovering over his shoulder, as if he was used to her being there. Unlike Dean, who felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up when Lecter came to a stop just behind Dean's shoulder.

"We managed to resist the temptation for trouble," Lecter pronounced. "And thank you, Beverly, for agreeing to watch the boys tonight."

'Cause that's not embarrassing or anything. Dean's face was bright red. He was ten for fucks sake. He didn't need a babysitter. Dad had been leaving him alone in charge of Sammy for years now. He knew what he was doing.

Beverly smiled broadly and seemed very entertained by something about Lecter but at least it wasn't directed at Dean. "No problem, Doc. Wouldn't want to spoil your plans for the evening. Just have him home by midnight." And then she winked.

"Bev!"

Dean's eyes snapped over to Will to find the other guy was probably even more embarrassed about this whole thing than Dean was. Which was kind of cool. At least he wasn't alone in his misery. If things were going to suck, having Will along for the suffering wasn't bad company.

"Or you know, whenever you're done with him," Beverly added.

Lecter hummed. "As tempting as that may be, I shall endeavor to return with dear Will before midnight."

"I can take my own car, you know. It's ridiculous to have you drive me all the way back."

"Ah, but I assured young Dean that we would all safely retire tonight at your house. He was alarmed at the notion of separating."

"No, I wasn't!" Dean yelped as his shoulders hunched up around his ears. And great, now everybody was staring at him like there was something wrong with him.

"It's going to be alright," Will said softly and shit if that wasn't even worse. Cause the guy really meant to be nice.

"I'm fine," Dean insisted. And continued when no believed him. "Really. Fine. Just fine. Perfectly fine. It's just –better when you're not alone. I mean the you kind of you, not the us kind of you. We're fine. I can take care of Sammy. It's just, you ought to be some place safe too."

"Well, shit," the woman announced after a moment of silence.

"I told you," Will replied.

"It's rather cute."

"Bev, please."

If Dean's face got any redder he might explode. "I'm going inside now," he announced. 'Cause he was man enough to know when to get the hell out of dodge. And he was not cute. He was anything but cute. Cute wasn't a word in his world.

The house felt dark and comforting once he was inside. The walls muffled the sound but didn't block it entirely. He could hear Will inviting Lecter in for coffee and a break from driving and it almost sent Dean scurrying up the stairs, but Lecter declined and suggested leaving as soon as possible. He could hear Beverly's voice rising and falling, something both sharp and light about the tone that had him thinking Dean wasn't the only person she liked to tease.

Then Will knocked his knuckles on the door frame. "We're leaving, Dean. We'll be back soon."

"I'm fine!"

And Will, the traitor, actually laughed a little. "Got it. See you soon."

And then they were gone. Lecter's car pulled out while Sammy barely even paused in his play to wave goodbye. The dogs barking increased but then seemed to drift. Dean peaked out the window. Sam was running across the yard, a stream of mutts trailing along behind him. Even the little yappy ones were fast little buggers when they wanted to be. Beverly was sitting on the porch steps, laughing and calling out instructions to Sam, like which way to turn next. The kid was doing his best to keep up with them, but more often than not ended up tripping along the way.

Beverly only glanced once back at the house but seemed content to ignore Dean now.

Which suited Dean just fine.

Sam's books were dropped on the nearest flat surface and his book was tucked under one arm as he made his way up the stairs, two at a time. He needed someplace to put his book, somewhere easy to get to so he could actually read the stupid thing but also somewhere Will wouldn't find it and start asking questions. The extra room seemed like the best bet. It wasn't hard to find a box of other books, one not on top but still easy to get to. Out came a book on plants and in went a book on witches. Mission one accomplished.

Then it was back downstairs as quickly and quietly as he could. There hadn't been time before to thoroughly inspect the house, especially not the main room. Will seemed to use it for just about everything, which was hella convenient but also made it damn hard to poke around without the man knowing. While Sam kept the lady distracted, Dean opened every drawer, checked every nook and cranny and searched every blind spot and possible hiding place.

He was hoping for a gun. Will was FBI and said he had been a cop. Guys like that always kept an extra piece around the house somewhere. Will was probably smart enough to move it, but it was possible with everything that was going on that he might have forgotten. Bobby kept three separate pieces just in his sitting room, and another two in the kitchen. It was probably a bit more than the average guy, but it was conceivable Will had a backup he'd overlooked. Dean was willing to be extra thorough for nothing more than a little hope.

He was also hoping to uncover a hex bag. Or a cursed item. Or the skeleton of some ancient pissed off former resident. Or some other kind of nasty. He needed something. Someplace to start in trying to figure out how to help Will.

It was a big room and it took him a while to dig through everything. But nada. Nothing. Not even so much as a fishy looking lucky rabbits foot. The bathroom was next, 'cause people were always hiding weird shit in there. But Will was not a clutter kind of guy and there wasn't much to see, just a whole lot of aspirin and some other meds, some toilet paper and a first aid kit that would have passed Dad's high standards. Still, Dean made sure to open everything up and look inside. Still nothing.

Which left only the upstairs and the kitchen. The upstairs was going to be a bitch to check thoroughly. There may not be much up there, but it was all in boxes and disorganized as shit. He'd have a hard time moving all of it and putting it back the way it was. So kitchen it was. Which meant a lot of cabinets, but at least they were straight forward. Cans of beans, boxes of noodles, cleaning supplies, pots and pans, spices, booze….wait, back up. Dean jerked away from looking through Will's surprisingly well stocked stash of whiskey and scrambled back to the drawer of spices.

He had store bought shakers, thrown sideways into a drawer by the stove and rattling around loosely in one big mess. Will clearly cooked for himself, but it was also just as clear that he wasn't exactly fancy about it. So the spices were pretty basic. Salt, pepper, garlic powder, cayenne and a pre-packaged Italian mix All of the containers were plastic, with cheerful pictures on them and the company logo along the top.

Except for the glass one tucked in the back. It wasn't marked. Wasn't even the usual spice jar shape but instead something a bit fancier and heavier when Dean pulled it out. And he was pretty sure Will didn't use whole spices for anything. So maybe Dean didn't know what the hell kind of leaf that was, or the twig looking thing, but none of it matched and none of it should be in this man's kitchen.

Especially not the boiled white finger bone that rattled loudly against the glass when Dean shook the jar to get a better look at it.

That definitely wasn't a chicken bone and it sure as hell didn't belong in a guy's spice collection.

"Fuck."


	19. Chapter 19

For a moment, Will lingered outside of his own front door. He could hear the sounds of Sam laughing and the dogs running in the field. He could almost feel the weight of Hannibal's eyes on his back like a heavy hand sliding between his shoulder blades. But mostly he was aware of this yawning distance between him and Dean. It was filled with all the things neither of them wanted to admit, the things they each new to be true but wanted to protect the other from. It must be hard for Dean, widening his circle of people who mattered from just Sam and their father to maybe including Will in that group. He could understand how that could be hard. How even Bev's friendly teasing could be overwhelming. Will I spent the last 24 hours feeling that in waves of hot and cold. It was mildly terrifying how much Will wanted to be the thing that would protect – save – fix Dean.

He was losing his distance. What little he had. It was terribly unprofessional. But Hannibal's murmured thoughts on guardianship and existing as a whole unit and not merely isolated parts…it was so very tempting in a way it never had been before. Will wasn't good with other people. He never had been and he had accepted that as a part of who he was. But then Hannibal had come along, the last person Will would have ever thought to build a friendship with, and here they were rushing head first into something more. Even with Sam and Dean, it felt so natural, so easy to coexist. He felt no need to apologize for or explain his very existence. They fell into patterns so effortlessly, as if everything had already been established and discussed and recognized.

It felt like being seen.

It was heady and terrifying.

Will didn't blame Dean for trying to put some distance between them.

But it also felt wrong to leave him like this. He would only be gone for a few hours, and Dean was more than capable of handling that kind of separation, but there was something felt wrong that left Will with the impulse to reach out and gather up the boy as close as possible to protect him from what was coming.

It was downright maudlin and he was being ridiculous.

The fact that he knew it had nothing to do with the boys' father or the serial-killing cult after them only left him more concerned. It was like there was some other unknown threat that he could only just barely see out of the corner of his eye but that was more dangerous to Dean and Sam than anything else could be. Something that could do more than just hurt them. Something that could break them.

"Will?" Hannibal asked from over his shoulder. The man was right behind him now, a warmth that ran from shoulder to knee and blocked the wind whipping around the sides of the house.

"I'm coming," he agreed halfheartedly, his mind still grasping at something elusive.

"Dean will not benefit from outside guidance the way Sam does. It would be best to give him his space and time to decide what is most important to him and what choices he will now make."

"I know." And he did know that. Dean, for all his fragility, was already the little solider his father had raised him to be. He knew his right from his wrong, no matter how flawed they might be. He'd always do his best. But he shouldn't have to make those choices alone.

Hannibal's hand was suddenly, gently, on Will's hip and the light touch was captivating. It was done so casually. As if it were only natural. As if this was nothing new between them and maybe it wasn't. Hannibal had long been Will's sense of grounding. Maybe more than he ever realized. There was the smell of wood and green things and something almost like musk that made Will think of mountain trails and hunting season and if this was how Hannibal smelt all the time, no wonder he found the cheap imitations from a bottle offensive.

Then Hannibal let him go and Will shook his head and stepped forward. He rapped his knuckles sharply on the door and loudly called out his goodbye to Dean. Hannibal was right. They needed to get going. They only had a few hours to themselves and Will wanted that time. But he also wanted Dean to know he wasn't forgotten.

The boy's panicked, embarrassed response was everything it should be coming from a preteen. The normalcy had him laughing. Things would be fine. Hannibal would help him with that. It was easier after that to get into the car. To drive away with only one last wave to Sam. Things would be fine. Bev would make sure they stayed safe.

The drive was quiet compared to the excitement of the boys and the harshness of his day's work. Will managed a few attempts at small talk. Nothing impressive, but enough for Hannibal to smooth over everything with the same presence and will that made everything he did graceful. It made the silent spaces in between much more companionable.

They held off on discussing anything real, holding back until they had reached the sanctuary of Hannibal's house. It wasn't their typical venue for discussion, but it was still familiar. Will had visited before, of course. Usually when under some kind of distress, but also for more mundane affairs such as coffee or dropping Hannibal off from one of their shared ventures. There was a certain level of comfort despite the outlandish decorations and grandiose scale of everything. The house didn't feel so big and empty and foreign these days.

It made him wonder what it would feel like to spend the night. To learn the shadows in the hallways, the creaking of the roof, the smell of coffee and breakfast in the morning. After all, Hannibal had made himself so at home in Will's house. Something that should have been awkward. Will was not used to sharing his space. And his little house in Wolf Trap was hardly maintained to the standards Hannibal was accustomed to. But other than some mild grumbling about the kitchen and its limitations, Hannibal had given no indication of discomfort. He had looked as at ease lounging at Will's rickety second-hand kitchen table, drinking his pre-ground coffee from an old mess hall mug as he did presiding over his elaborately decorated solid walnut dining table with its pristine lines and bone china.

Will wanted to be as comfortable in Hannibal's world as the man was in Will's.

So he watched Hannibal and followed his lead. It was easy to let a bit of the other man sink into his skin. His movements were likely not as graceful and his natural reticence was still apparent, but it felt effortless. Like something he could absorb into himself and not just playact at. Hannibal caught his eye at one point, as they were doing the transitional dance from car to entry way and then from entry way to settling in the kitchen. He had lifted one eyebrow and smiled slowly but said nothing. The man was far too polite to comment on his change in manners.

Mimicking others was something Will had learned early on not to do too much of. People weren't as unaware as they might seem and it highly unnerved them even if they couldn't always pinpoint exactly what it was he was doing. But there was something comfortingly mindless about letting himself sink into such playacting. Like the script for how to interact like a normal person was all laid out there in front of him and he only had to go through the motions to find acceptance. Hannibal however seemed to find something pleasing about it. The look he gave over his shoulder made it clear he knew that Will had fallen back onto it like a crutch. But it also made it clear he found it more humorous than alarming.

Will had managed a small lopsided grin in return before Hannibal set to the business of making them dinner. Which left Will with no other option but to try to struggle through describing how his day really had been. This at least was familiar territory. It started in fits, bits of disjointed information working their way out slowly. But it wasn't long before Will settled into their routine. Hannibal had directed him to one of the tall kitchen chairs while he worked, and Will let his body relax bonelessly in it until he was half slumped over the end of the kitchen island. He drank the wine given to him freely and gestured wildly when there was a complicated bit of imagery he wanted Hannibal to be able to see as clearly as he did. He summarized the events as best he could, relieved to finally be able to discuss the case in detail with his sounding board. The team had already covered the information several times, but their debating never helped Will make connections the way Hannibal's conversation did.

Hannibal worked quietly, moving back and forth between sizzling meat and fresh green beans with a smooth grace that was almost like a dance. There was bacon going into the green beans, and Will didn't miss that fact that several of the other things Hannibal had assembled for the night were variations of foods Will had grown up with. It was a bit ambitious. Will's childhood had been semi-nomadic, not nearly as much as the boys, but enough that he knew just about every decent southern cooking restaurant and dive along the coast. If there was one kind of food in the world that Will knew and understood, it was southern cooking. Comfort food probably wasn't Hannibal's area of expertise, but the man had a habit of exceeding expectations when it came to adaptation and he had yet to serve Will something he hadn't enjoyed.

It was a nice counterbalance. All of the smells of home to counter the violence and distress of the day.

"It was very good of you to notice the irregularity in the wound," Hannibal commented once Will was finished presenting the basic information.

Will kept his gaze focused on the swirl of burgundy in his glass and hid his pleased smile. Probably not an appropriate compliment nor one he should be so pleased at. "Price would have found it. He was still working up his examination. And he always double-checks."

"But you suspected you would find something."

"Yes. The – " He struggled for a moment for the right words, waving his hand as if to conjure up the picture for his companion. "The violence? No, the sloppiness, of the wound. It didn't fit the rest of the crime screen. Even the victim who was beaten. That was done slowly, by hand, to prolong the pain. This was a quick butchery."

"An afterthought," Hannibal supplied.

"Yes! Exactly!"

Hannibal nodded solemnly. "Your instincts and awareness continue to be impressive, Will."

Will smiled back, a little lopsided. It still caught him off guard sometimes, how much Hannibal seemed to respect and even like the parts of Will that usually distressed other people, at least outside of the work place.

Hannibal paused, looking up from his work with a thoughtful expression. He had moved on from preparing dinner to prepping what looked like desert. Or at least, Will assumed the strawberries were for desert and not some newfangled way of preparing pork. Wisely, he had the sleeves of his dress shirt neatly rolled back and an apron on to cover the rest. But there wasn't a speck on the crisp, stark white fabric and even his fingers were clean as they gently guided the knife through piece after piece. His hands were still now, knife poised for the next piece but Hannibal's eyes distant as he thought about something.

"It reminds me of legends we used to have in my homeland," he finally said carefully, as if testing them out even as he spoke them. "Of creatures that looked like men but were monsters. Every society has such stories. How else could man explain the level of violence he is capable of inflicting and his fear of that violence? His fear of that violence in himself? Even the rational man understands that there is darkness in the world and because of that there will always stories. Even when I was a child, many still believed in the old ways. Superstitions. Not everyone, of course, but many still practiced the old rituals. Centuries of beliefs do not change overnight, after all. While I am certain many of them believed it was little more than tradition or for good luck, for some there was still a very real fear attached to them." He looked up at Will, catching his eye and holding it as he smiled slowly. He turned the knife slowly in his hand, an absentminded gesture similar to the way a businessman might fiddle with a pen.

Will's own body stilled as he held himself carefully, waiting for anything Hannibal was willing to give him. He couldn't imagine the good doctor was often one to share information about himself, and Will desperately wanted it. Wanted it all. Wanted to crawl inside his skin, just for a moment, and understand him the way he always seemed to understand Will.

"My family had lived in the same house for seven generations, and on the same land for even longer than that. I suppose you could say the Lecters were somewhat of an institution in our region," he added, with that odd tone of forced voluntary modesty he sometimes adopted. A man torn between pride in his manners and his vanity.

Will had never bought it, not since day one. There was a sense of superiority to Hannibal that had little to do with fancy dinner parties and outlandish ties and more to do with something in the man himself. And this was all the confirmation Will needed. That sort of attitude was often instilled at a young age, and if what Hannibal was suggesting was what Will suspected it was, there was a long history of distinction and family power behind that mild tone.

"It was because of that history that my parents were often relied upon to…maintain those old customs. A task they accepted with great solemnity, if unfortunate naivety. In the end, those charms and protections were not enough and they were too limited to see that more direct action was necessary. But that is a story for another time."

Will's hands clenched. He wanted to reach out and touch those deferred truths and the wealth of information and tragedy behind them. To hold them tight and peer over them until he understood every shadow and shift so he could understand why a man as calm and whole as Hannibal fit so well in Will's fractured and frantic life. But he knew about distances, about needing space for certain parts of oneself. He had to respect that. He had to want to respect that, even when he really didn't.

With one last twist of his knife, Hannibal went back to work as if nothing had been said. "They taught me the way they had been taught. Which included my first introduction to medicine. Veterinarians were too expensive for many of our neighbors, and doctors even more so. My family had a history of providing what would today be called holistic care and medicinal herbalism. The devotedly Christian of our neighbors were practical enough to turn a blind eye to anything esoteric in nature as long as crops were good and animals and man were healthy. You would be surprised how many old world superstitions are treated as practical protections when your world consists of isolated and vulnerable villages. When things like famines are recent memories. Or when there are still stories told of killers in the night who leave bloodless bodies."

Will snorted. "I doubt they had many serial killers."

"You would be surprised, dear Will, what can be hiding in plain sight." Hannibal set his knife down and swept his pile of sliced strawberries neatly into a waiting bowl in one clean motion. "You have seen the darker side of man from a perspective much more intimate and knowledgeable than most could even imagine. It is a reality that pervades this world and it is a truth that no matter what else you do or do not believe in, you must accept."

Will stared at nothing, his eyes fixed on one of the far cabinets but his mind working over this newest piece of Hannibal. An insular community, a family honor made up of both respectable authority and dangerous isolation. And violence. Clearly, violence. Anyone who recounted stories of their dear distant childhood home, and instead of remembering sunlit days and childish mishaps, lingered on the misfortune and death lurking in the shadows clearly had experienced some kind of trauma. It wasn't surprising. Will had long suspected that Hannibal knew more than his fair share. Most psychologists did. There was the old joke that they went into the profession to learn how to cure themselves, after all. But this wasn't something in the abstract. This was Hannibal.

"The boys remind you of home."

Hannibal's smile was warm and inviting. "Do they not remind you as well, dear Will? But yes. There are certain similarities in what they believe and what my parents taught to me as a child."

"Like Dean's salt lines."

"Yes. That and more." Hannibal look was more hesitant, this time. A shift in body language so obvious it had Will leaning forward, eager to reassure him. What must it cost for a man of Hannibal's education and expertise to admit that he still valued the superstitions of his childhood?

Will breathed in slowly. "I believe you promised to show me some of these traditions," he said carefully. Their afternoon, so far, had been so much like every other, it was almost easy to forget that things had changed between them. And while Will valued that consistency, he was also promised more tonight. He wanted that intimacy, both physical and pseudo-spiritual.

Hannibal smiled back, a full smile that showed his teeth and made his eyes crinkle, not the small reserved one he typically showed the world. "I have every intention of fulfilling my word. But first, you must allow me to feed you."

"Part of the process?" Will asked lightly, trying to ignore the way his pulse jumped uncomfortably. This was supposed to be the good kind of adrenaline that led to a pleasant evening, not the sort that reminded him of chasing down a suspect.

"Yes," Hannibal replied as seriously as if they were once more discussing a case. "The sharing of food is very important in all cultures. It is a sign of belonging, of continuation, of nourishment, and of growth. It connects people, for better or worse."

Will leaned back in his seat, pulling his glass with him and cradling it carefully with both hands. His eyes dropped down to study his grip, suddenly feeling tense. Too much, too fast maybe. Like drinking too much wine. That lighthearted feeling had morphed into something more like the short of breath sensation that went with a panic attack. "Traditions are important to you," he said slowly, pulling himself back in. There was no reason to suddenly feel overwhelmed by Hannibal's presence. But suddenly, what had felt like a fun piece of game, maybe even a little flirting, now had the weight of the threat of a promise behind it.

"Very much so."

"And you learned most of those as a small child." Will's mind wanted to picture it, wanted to see what Hannibal as a child would have been like, but the cultural differences and the intensity with which Hannibal spoke of it made it hard to construct a basic picture.

Hannibal paused, setting down his knife slowly. "The ones that matter the most, yes."

And that was what Will wanted, wasn't it? The things that matter most. To understand Hannibal that way. To make them once more equals in that regard. "So food first," he agreed easily. "And then you can try to make a believer out of me."

The line must have been funnier than he had thought, because Hannibal's smile was the widest, most open smile Will had ever seen on the doctor's face. "I am certain I can. I'm counting on it, after all."

And like most of Hannibal's promises, Will was inclined to believe him.

But Hannibal did have his priorities. Food came first. He refused to let Will assist him in its preparation – "After all, it would not be me providing for you if I permitted you to perform any of the labor," – but he did relent enough to allow Will to carry the wine to the table.

They were already on their second bottle Will noticed, and without thinking, he made the crass joke "I'd accuse you of trying to get me drunk, but we both know it would take more than this." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to drag their inane idiocy back in. It was a stupid joke for a different crowd. The kind of pointless banter that made dealing with cops easier.

Hannibal paused in setting down the plate in his hand and looked up slowly. "I think we both know I would not need to."

And really? How was he supposed to focus on anything other than that? Will's face was flushed and his stomach squirming and he wanted to say something else, something not awkward back but he was worried what might come out of his mouth if he gave it a chance. This was exactly why staying quiet was usually the better option for him. It was only propriety that had him lifting the first bite to his mouth.

After that first taste, it was too easy to eat everything that was put in front of him. Hannibal's food was as captivating as always and more than enough to overcome a nervous stomach. The man made southern comforts as if he had been doing so his whole life. Will would have to bring him fish sometime. He'd love to see what Hannibal could do with catfish or even maybe some alligator meat if he could get some brought up. He had a feeling Hannibal would appreciate the challenge. And maybe then Will could repay some of his generosity.

"I understand why you wouldn't want me botching this," he commented as he worked his way blissfully though their main course. "But what if I helped provide the ingredients?" he asked. "How would that factor into your rituals regarding hospitality?"

Hannibal's hands stopped but he didn't look up. His whole body was still. "I would be honored," he finally said. "But perhaps that is an activity we can one day do together."

And damn if that didn't sound even better. The smile that stretched across Will's face wasn't one he could control. Hannibal kept making promises for tomorrow. It was enough to go to a fella's head. Who knew? Maybe one day they could even go fishing together. Wouldn't that be a sight to see? Hannibal in plastic waders. While he was certain Hannibal always wore the appropriate clothing for the task at hand (he'd even once seen him in a polo shirt, and wasn't that a sight to see!) he inevitably could only picture Hannibal in one of his fine colorful suits, precariously protected from the rushing current by cumbersome plastic.

Despite having only a limited amount of time before Will had to get back to the boys, they still lingered over their food. Hannibal was not one to be rushed and Will found himself naturally matching his pace. Eventually, however, the last bite of each delicious dish was gone and the wine was running dry once more. Hannibal watched Will finish off the last of it, his eyes fixed on Will's face while Will's eyes danced about for something else to focus his attention on. There wasn't a lack of options. In contrast to the stark, sleek lines and large scale of Hannibal's furniture, there were a number of odd but organic decorations ranging from plumage to shells that gave the room a visceral organic feel.

"Did you have a plan for this evening?'

"I always have a plan."

"Not quite what I meant. Not that I don't mean that. But I meant more educational."

"My dear Will, you do know I always strive to provide proper stimulation for that wonderful mind of yours," Hannibal replied, his voice low but even.

Will tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. Like everything else in the house, the lighting in the room was carefully controlled and limited to a soft sophistication that left just enough light and shadow to highlight the differences in the room. Will just hoped it was enough to hide some of the blush. Hannibal might read far too much into that blush. It might give the man the idea that Will was thinking of things that weren't exactly proper at the dinner table. Decorum was very important, after all. Not at all Will's strong suit, but he could certainly try. He quickly swallowed the rest of his wine and tried to think of something to say.

"Is that what we're calling it these days?" he managed and wished there was more wine. It certainly wouldn't improve his conversational skills but it would make it easier to ignore his pathetic attempts at humor.

"Hmm, yes," Hannibal replied immediately with no more than the slightest uptick of his mouth to show his entertainment at the innuendo. "But first, I promised to let you participate in one of my traditions. Shall we?" And with that, he stood up, place aside his napkin and gesturing for Will to join him.

"Yes. Alright. Good." Will hastened to stand as well. This was easier. He was a good student. He knew how to listen and absorb. Teachers tended to like him, as long as he didn't ask too many questions. And since the purpose of tonight was to get Hannibal to talk about himself, Will's primary task would be listening. He had expected to be lead into the sitting room. Surely conversations such as this were best held over a glass of whiskey and with a warm fire as the only light. But Hannibal gently grasped Will's wrist, his fingers wrapping slowly but firmly just under Will's cuff, and with another hand hovering along Will's back, guided him once more into the kitchen. They had left the lights on, shining bright against clean counter tops. The only indication that Hannibal had been recently at work were the couple of bowls of unused garnish sitting to one side and the strong odor of cooked meat and garlic. Everything else had been efficiently clean and tucked away while the man worked.

"Come, sit here," Hannibal instructed. He moved one of the tall stools until it's back was against the island, and fussed until Will was sitting comfortably with his feet tucked into the rungs and Hannibal loosely holding his hands in his lap. He gently turned Will's hands over until they faced up, cupped slightly, as if he planned on filling them with something precious.

"I have not spoken of my parents often since their death," Hannibal started. There was no hesitation in his voice, no catch or tremble. "I am at peace with my past. I have learned all that I need to from what has come before and chose to focus more on what lays ahead me and what options I may take." Hannibal's eyes rose to catch Will's suddenly as he lifted Will's hand and kissed it gently before once more arranging them in Will's lap. And okay, it was not an okay thing for Will to be so pleased and flushed when Hannibal was talking about his parents' death. He severely doubted they died of a heart attack the way Will's father had. He and his father had been estranged for several years before the man's death, but even despite that, Will still mentioned him on occasion. The man had certainly never been father of the year, but they had spent 18 years of Will's life together and pieces of him still echoed under Will's skin. He would have had to make a conscious focused effort to erase that from his being – and even then, he doubted he could do as thorough of a job as Hannibal had with his parents.

People didn't do that kind of thing without a reason.

With his hands gently cradling the air between them, Will fleetingly wondered if he could clasp that reason in his two hands and keep hold of it between them like a tether.

"Having said that," Hannibal continued, "I have also learned valuable lessons from the mistakes of the past. I learned how to be strong. I have learned how to protect that strength. And how to use that strength. My parents came from a long line of powerful individuals. But over time they had allowed themselves to be shackled to the expectations and limitations of those around them. They questioned themselves and that strength was slowly carved away, until there was no longer enough left to defend themselves with when the wolves were at our gates. You could say that the world I grew up in no longer exists. Or rather, it has slip beneath the mind and notice of the rest of the world."

Will had closed his eyes by that point, focused on the sound of Hannibal's voice, the way his accent almost seemed to deepen but still remained as clear as a bell inside Will's mind. Their heads were bent close together now. One of Hannibal's hands was still cradling Will's, but he used the other to run one finger gently over the sensitive skin of Will's palm. It was a touch that was not completely idle. It moved confidently and steadily in a pattern that Hannibal then repeated on his other hand.

"I need you to understand, William, the significance of this. I am sharing with you something that has been kept within my family for hundreds of years. But I have known, since the moment I met you, that this was a part of me that I wish to share with you."

Will smiled a bit ruefully but didn't open his eyes. The touch might be feather light and fleeting, but it captured his complete and utter attention in the way that so few things could. "As I recall, I was a bit of a little shit to you when we first met."

It was, perhaps, a bit crude. Hannibal's laughter, however, was a quiet deep rumble that Will imagined he more felt than heard. Like warm breath on the back of his neck, but this time not something to be afraid of but something to be embraced. "I never once took offence," Hannibal assured him. "A cornered wolf can only be expected to defend its territory. I hope I have proven myself to be much more beneficial to your well-being and growth than anticipated. In fact, I feel like each day we understand and know each other even more."

Will opened his eyes and took a risk. He leaned forward just enough for a light brush of a kiss. It was hardly their first. Several had been exchanged the night before in a leisurely exploration. It had hardly been the time or place for more. But this was something more impulsive. Perhaps even a bit possessive. To assume such a touch would be appreciated. That he could claim such an intimacy with no expectation of providing more. Simply because he wanted to.

Hannibal's grip on his hands tightened. "I am pleased that we agree on such matters," he replied. This time, he didn't let Will's eyes avoid him. "But first, we have important matters to attend to. Do not move." He pulled back and stepped over to the counter to retrieve the items waiting there. He laid them out artfully on the island beside them. A paring knife, similar to the kind Will used to prep fish but of a finer quality. A small bowl of white powder. A small bowl of grey power. An honest-to-god crystal carafe, about the size of a beer bottle and probably meant for salad dressing or some such thing. Right now it was filled with water. And cloth bandages.

Will inspected it all calmly. Only raising one eyebrow at the end as he glanced up. It was a bit of an odd assortment, but nothing exactly objectionable despite certainly being much more complex than he had expected. But they weren't boys playing games and swearing childhood oaths that would soon be forgotten. As Hannibal said, this was very much a part of who he was – and Will was very willing to take a part of that for his own.

Hannibal picked up the bowl of grey powder. "Yew ash," he told Will before gracefully dragging one finger through the pile. It came away nearly black on his fingertip before he gently dragged it across Will's palm. It was the same pattern he'd traced before when he held Will's hand. Will hadn't thought anything of it then, just a random pattern meant more to be soothing than meaningful. Seeing it now traced in ash, there was a clear structure to it - a collection of crossing lines and one arch that was nearly a perfect half circle. Will studied it, wondering if his perspective was upside down or right-side up. It was hard to tell.

"Yew?"

"A type of common evergreen, known for its longevity and more recently in its use for treating cancer. An irony, since the tree has historically been well known as poisonous. I keep one in the garden."

Will had only had glimpses of the gardens Hannibal kept around his stately home but it didn't surprise him that Hannibal made good use of each plant. The carefully manicured trees and bushes that framed the front entrance and the side porch gave it a very formal look. But even those where unique. No one bush or tree the same as the others, but each complementing the overall arrangement. It was as carefully planned and controlled as any other part of Hannibal's life. He might live in the center of one of the nicest neighborhoods in Baltimore, but between the high walls surrounding the house and the thick layers of greenery encompassing it, there was a level of privacy cultivated that seemed almost at odds with the very public, metropolitan setting.

Of course Hannibal had a yew tree. If yew was something that he used, he probably wouldn't accept anything but what he had grown himself. Will wouldn't be surprised to learn that Hannibal kept an entire farm tucked away somewhere behind the house. After all, he only used the best ingredients in his cooking. Though the image of Hannibal gardening, still in his suit but perhaps with the sleeves rolled up in deference to the heat, made Will smile.

Once Hannibal had finished painting on Will skin he carefully held the bowl out and turned his own palm face up. "If you would be so kind as to repeat the symbol. I am certain you can manage to recreate it faithfully."

It was a bit awkward, since Hannibal insisted on holding the small bowl of ash while Will dipped his finger in and out of it, but eventually Will found the right pressure and speed to draw clear dark lines that match his own. Their hands were roughly the same size, but Hannibal's skin was smoother and his fingers seemed longer and more delicate. Will supposed it made sense. He'd had a childhood of fishnets and fixing motors and even as an adult still maintained several hobbies such as fishing and putzing about the house that lead to scuffs and scraps and other accidents. Hannibal had been a surgeon and had probably never once accidently cut himself while gutting a fish.

Will hoped his calluses didn't feel too rough when dragging across skin. When he risked a glance up, he found Hannibal's eyes fixed on his work. It was probably one of the few times when Hannibal _wasn't_ watching Will. He stared without shame. It was so easy to dismiss Hannibal as yet another soft spoken erudite. Certainly, he was a presence that commanded respect, but he always manage it in such a mild mannered sort of way that it was sometimes easy to just accept him as one of the many academic professionals involved in their work. But when he focused on something, it was like seeing a different part of him. Something much more –significant. Something that demanded your attention in return, that was capable of anything, that you couldn't – shouldn't turn away from or it might catch you off-guard.

Will's fingers lingered over Hannibal's wrist, at the very end of the last downward stroke. It wasn't until then that Hannibal looked up, catching Will's eyes once more before smiling slowly and setting aside the first bowl. He picked up the knife. "I assume I do not have to inform you that this will cause some discomfort," he said mildly as he placed the tip at the edge of Will's left hand, between his thumb and forefinger, exactly where the three main lines on his hand met.

It was a good sharp knife. It would be quick and certainly less painful than many other things that had caused Will to bleed. Will nodded.

Hannibal's grip tightened. "It is necessary for you to give verbal consent, dear Will. We cannot be ambiguous on such matters."

"I consent," Will agreed easily.

The serious expression on Hannibal's face remained, as did the tight grip he kept on Will's wrist. "The next step will involve a fine powered salt applied to the wound. It will hurt significantly more than the initial cut, but I am afraid it is essential."

Will's eyes darted over to the second bowl, the one filled with white powder. He had certainly never heard of putting salt in the wound when listening to other boys play at being blood brothers. But Hannibal was not playing at this. This had meaning to him, perhaps even more so because it was an aspect of himself that was not fit for normal company.

"I consent," Will repeated since it was silly to think he would back out now.

The slow smile that spread across Hannibal's face was certainly worth it. And maybe Will had a few more crossed wires than he realized because it made him _want_.

Hannibal was still smiling at him like that when he flicked the knife quickly, the tip flying from one side of Will's hand to the other fast enough that at first there was no blood. Hannibal was still watching his face when Will looked down to see what the damage would be. His fingers twitched briefly when the pain hit but it was manageable. In fact, the cut was very shallow, just barely deep enough to even draw blood. And perfectly straight even though Hannibal hadn't been looking at what he was doing, far more interested in studying Will's reaction. He didn't dally in taking Will's other hand and repeating the process. Knowing the level of pain to expect did not lessen it. And the bleeding in his first hand was already starting to gather in droplets that threatened to run towards the sides if he moved the cup of his hand.

"The salt first, then you will repeat the process on me."

Will hadn't thought much about that part. Hannibal's hands were cleaner and more valuable than his own. It seemed a pity to damage them. Such an odd thing to submit the man too. "However will you explain it," Will murmured. It was clear now that the cloth bandages were going to necessary, even if the cuts were shallow and would likely heal quickly to little more than grotesquely oversized paper cuts.

Hannibal hummed. "However I wish," he answered, making it clear no one would dare question him about whatever answer he chose to give. "It will certainly be worth any inconvenience that may occur." He leaned forward suddenly, his breath ghosting across Will's cheek as he pressed a gentle dry kiss there. It would have almost been polite if it wasn't for the tight grip Hannibal kept on both of his wrists now, and the gentle throbbing of pain as he squeezed them and made the skin pucker. "It is tradition, in my family, to bind ourselves to those with a strength we wish to possess. And in doing so we bind that person to us in ways that go beyond the flesh and fill the mind. My dear William. You see much more of the truth in this world than perhaps even you realize. I would share that vision with you and give to you my own." He pulled back and it was as if something else, something larger retreated with him, the world no longer wrapped tightly in soft spoken words and hidden depths. Will blinked in the light, even if nothing in the room had changed.

"And now the salt," Hannibal reminded him, gathering a large pinch of it between his fingers. "Try not to move your hands," he told Will firmly even as he stepped closer till his body nearly pined Will to the chair. He didn't hesitate. The salt was spread quickly and evenly and pressed down and ground into skin. It burned. A choked noise scrabbled its way through the back of Will's throat as it seemed like every nerve ending in his arm seared with pain. It wouldn't actually harm him, but it felt like layers of skin were being slowly removed. There were certainly worse things to experience. Will had been on the receiving end of a few of them between being shot and having had his fair share of contusions and abrasions. But it was also a pain that would not be ignored or diminished.

Hannibal finished with the first, and without moving away from where he had Will boxed in between the chair and the island and his body, he calmly took Will's other hand and repeated the process. His movements were efficient without being rushed. Just the right amount of pressure to ensure that the salt was well distributed and would stay put. The first hand was still burning as sharply as it had on contact even after Hannibal finished the second.

He once more picked up the knife, and with gentle care places it in one of Will's abused hand and curled Will's fingers around the hilt. "And now it is time for you to do your part," he told him as if Will had done nothing but wait his turn. Holding the knife hurt, but Hannibal guided Will's hand into the proper position. "You gave your consent," he reminded him.

"Yes," Will agreed, pulling his focus back to the task at hand now that the pain had leveled out. It was still there, impossible to ignore, but steady enough now that Will could accept it. He got a better grip on the knife. It was slippery with his own blood, but his fingers were still dry and he knew how to hold it properly. Hannibal's body was all but curled above him now. He held Will's hand in place, but didn't push or rush him. It was a delicate loose hold. Will breathed out slowly and pressed down and dragged across.

His cut was not nearly as fine or straight. It probably hurt more for the clumsiness, but Hannibal didn't even flinch. His released his grip and moved his free hand down Will's arm to gently cup his elbow. He waited until Will was finished before smoothly exchanging one hand for the other. The salt was harder to do. Will's hands had a faint tremor to them and his mind at least flinched at the idea of touching the powder, even just with his fingertips. Of course it didn't hurt, not there at least. But his body and his mind weren't in complete harmony at the moment about what would and would not cause him harm. In this, Hannibal offered little guidance. He merely waited patiently for Will to sprinkle it over the wound, sometimes in clumps congealed from his own blood mixing with the mess. Pressing down was more difficult but Hannibal kept his hands steady and still.

"Harder," he told him when Will only managed a bare touch before trying to move on. And really, Will couldn't not do as the man asked when he was the one who started this. He pressed down firmly, Hannibal's hand staying flat and stable under him. Just as Will was about to pull back, Hannibal's hands twisted, wrapping around his own until their palms were pressed together, grinding the salt and blood into both of their hands. Will gasped at the pain. He couldn't bring himself to squeeze back but he managed not to pull away. Hannibal pulled him closer and whispered against his ear.

Will's entire focus was on what Hannibal wanted him to see, wanted him to know, wanted him to feel. The words had meaning – far more than the usual drivel people shared day in and day out. Will had learned not to listen to what people said but what they did, how they moved, what they ran towards or away from. But this was maybe the most important thing Hannibal had ever said to him and Will was going to soak it up deep inside his core and keep it where he could examine it, come to understand it and maybe even absorb.

If only it wasn't maddeningly just out of reach.

"Lithuanian?" Will asked when he realized that his inability to follow what was being said stemmed from more than the distraction of the pain. His breathing was still sharp and a bit too fast and now the rest of him felt feverish, as if the burning in his hands had somehow spread. He almost imagined he could hear his own heartbeat, and maybe something else. Like an echo throbbing in his brain. He felt like a tuning fork vibrating in response to some outside force.

Hannibal hummed along in response. "A bit older," he answered before inhaling deeply. "Think of it as a kind of manifestation of the desire to establish a bond between two individuals who already share very similar predilections."

Will smiled. "You want me to be your friend."

"You already consider me your friend, Will. With this, I will now bind you more permanently to myself, so that we might soon share even more. You gave me your consent, dear Will. I would be a very poor friend indeed if I did not see this through to your full potential."

Will's ears were still ringing and it was a hell of time for him to start feeling like the world had once more become slightly unhinged. Perhaps an ironic description, but he found it fit best when it felt like different parts of the world were moving in different directions, completely independent of each other and yet as smooth and flowing as water. The chair felt like it was rocking backwards even though he knew Hannibal was holding him steady by the painful grip he had on their hands. The floor beneath them flowed upward. The ceiling pressed down, threatening to crush him and only him while Hannibal stood like a man apart, untouched and undisturbed by Will's melting reality.

It was damn inconvenient timing for Will to fall apart and his grip tightened instinctively.

Hannibal's thumb brushed the back of his hand once and then he was pulling away, tearing their hands apart and seemingly ripping the flesh anew. Will whimpered.

"Let us get these cleaned and wrapped properly. Then we can continue our evening in a much more traditionally intimate manner."

It was all very prim and proper. And Will was beyond ready.


	20. Chapter 20

Dean was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs when Lecter returned Will that night. Not the stairs outside, because that Bev lady wouldn't let him sit outside by himself. She wouldn't let him stay hidden up in his room either. And he wasn't allowed in the kitchen at all since the fire.

That didn't leave a bunch of options.

Sam was curled up by himself in one of Will's big chairs. He'd pulled the blanket off the back and had him and one of the dogs tucked under it. Will had apparently all of the nature science channels and Sam was binge watching. Their minder had muttered something about it being better than cartoons but she was close to nodding off after a couple of hours. Probably the only reason she didn't was because she jerked around every now and then to make sure Dean was still sitting where she'd last seen him and that he hadn't gotten into any trouble since then.

She had not been understanding about Dean burning something in the kitchen sink.

Dean didn't really give a fuck what she thought. He wasn't letting that thing stay in the house with his brother here. Dad had taught him all kinds of useful things and he knew how to recognize witchcraft when he saw it. A mystery jar of twigs and leaves and a freakin' bone? Yeah, no way. Dean had thrown the whole thing into the sink hard enough to shatter the glass. Then he'd found a towel, some cooking oil and matches and that took care of the problem fast.

Maybe a bit too well, but hey, best to be thorough right? Even if it meant getting yelled at for what felt like forever. He had tried explaining that he had the fire under control – that was why he set it in the sink to begin with – but that hadn't flown over real well. In fact, the idea of him having been careful in how he burnt it seemed to only make her angrier. He hadn't bothered trying to explain that it was a hex bag and probably why Will looked like death warmed over all the time and was seeing freaky manifestations of evil. She was probably too stupid to understand anyway.

He didn't care what she thought. What did she matter? He could wait until Will got home.

But it was a long, frustrating few hours sitting there with nothing he could do except wait and watch and ignore the lady giving him looks like she either wanted to yell at him some more, or god forbid, talk about it.

It took Will and Lecter long enough to get back. How long did it take to eat dinner? Dean wanted to rush out and talk to Will right away, but he couldn't. Not with the lady still there and probably chiming in with all kinds of things about how bad a kid Dean was. Even Lecter's creepy way of staring at people was more than Dean wanted to deal with right now. So he stayed by the stairway and kept his head down and waited.

Sammy and all the dogs ran out to greet them. Sam had been half-sleep only moments before, but now he was a bouncing along beside the adults, mouth going a mile a minute about whales or dolphins or somesuch thing. Dean could see them clearly through the windows. The house might be a bit like living in a glass bowl, but Dean had to admit it made for good sightlines. Anything trying to get near the house would be in plain view from yards away. Will looked tired, only nodding along with whatever it was Sam was telling him. Lecter was much more engaged, talking for both of them and shepherding them in with a hand on Will's back and another on Sammy's head.

Bev met them on the porch, and sure enough, told Sam to take the dogs in while she talked to Will.

Dean's jaw clenched but he didn't bother trying to stop it. It was going to happen. He just had to hope Will would still talk to him afterwards. Most people didn't, not after Dean did something 'weird' but Will had been weird himself with how calm he was about all the messed up parts of Dean's life. He just had to hope that'd hold out long enough for Dean to make him understand that someone was targeting him.

He wasn't safe. Sammy wasn't safe. And if they didn't do something about this right away it was only going to get worse. And Dean didn't want to be one of those people, the ones that Dad got to just a little bit too late to save.

The front door opened again, Will leaning against it as he shuffled in. "- I'll talk to him about it," he was telling the others. Neither of them looked very happy. Hell, Lecter was outright glaring at Dean as if he'd set the curtains on fire. Will just looked tired. But when he turned and saw Dean, he managed a small smile.

Christ, Dean wanted his Dad. He wanted his Dad so much. Dad would know how to help Will and he wouldn't have to wait for someone's permission to do it.

"Come on," Will said. He gestured up the stairs and Dean hesitated a moment before pushing himself to his feet. His butt was completely numb so bad it hurt at first, but he got himself moving up the stairs. Will followed behind him, apparently content to go slow. Will guided him with only the brush of a hand here and there, not even really a touch but more the suggestion of one, until they were in the boys room and sitting side by side on the twin bed.

"So," Will started with an easy tone that sounded much less worn out than he looked. "What did you find?"

Dean snuck a glance at him, but the man was serious. He wasn't yelling at Dean yet, which was nice. "What makes you think I found somethin'?" Dean replied. He wanted to know what the lady had told him but there was no way Dean would have been willing to slink around waiting to hear it in person.

"Oh, Bev had lots to say, mostly annoyed with me," Will assured him. "But I figured that if you'd taken it into your head to start a fire in the kitchen, there had to be a reason. And since you weren't trying to burn down the house in a bid for freedom – thank you for that by the way – I figured it must have been something else. Something you wanted to destroy thoroughly. So what did you find?"

Dean gave up on being subtle and stared at the guy thorough narrowed eyes. "You're being really fuckin' calm about this."

"Language." Will shrugged. "Exhaustion might have something to do with it. But honestly, I'd much rather hear what happened to you more than anything else."

Dean frowned in confusion. "Nothin' happened to me."

"Something upset you enough you set it on fire."

Dean scowled. Will almost sounded amused. Not exactly like he was laughing at Dean, but like he still found something so ridiculous it was entertaining. "This is serious," Dean told him, feeling that knot get tighter in his stomach. He wasn't good with words. He wasn't good at getting people to understand the important things. People never listened to him when he tried so normally he just didn't, but that wasn't an option here.

"I know it's serious," Will agreed. "That's why I want to know what it was. And you want to tell me."

Which was true, but sounded kind all touchy feely being told so like that. Still. "Do you know what a hex bag is?" Dean asked, 'cause you had to start somewhere and it sounded better than someone's been fucking with your head.

"No. Tell me about it."

And alright, Dean could maybe manage that. His Dad had written out notes about witches before and had Dean read through some of them. It wasn't historical stuff like that book Lecter had. This was practical stuff like what to watch out for and how to stop 'em. Dean didn't remember all of it, because Dad only showed it to him a couple of times and there'd been a lot of other stuff written down there and Dean had been trying to memorize all of it. But he managed the basics of what a hex bag was. "And I found one," he concluded. "Here. In your house. Someone put it here. It explains why you're having such a hard time. It's probably causing the Stag! Someone's been trying to hurt you and I had to destroy it as fast as possible."

"Dean – "

"Don't you get it? It's proof! Someone's been doing this to you. On purpose. You're not safe. And it's affecting Sammy too. I fixed it. For now. But this is serious! Whoever did this isn't going to just stop because I burned the thing. They're going to find some other way to get at you and it's probably going to be worse because these things always get worse and if Dad was here he'd know what to do to protect you and stop this and I don't know how to find a witch and they can hurt you without even touchin' ya and we have to do something!"

Dean had half raised, half turned in his seat, his arms waving as he tried to make Will understand how very very bad this was. It made it easy for Will to reach out and wrap his arms around Dean's back and pull him forward. He resisted, not willing to be silenced and not going to give up. But Will wasn't trying to shut him up or restrain him or anything. The guy was hugging him. And it wasn't the kind of halfway hug Dad gave him when he'd done good. It wasn't even like the hugs Sammy gave him, where the kid was like a limpet hanging off of whatever part of Dean he could wrap his arms around. It wasn't the careful way teachers hugged you like you might be dirty or think they were dirty or something.

Will was actually really hugging Dean, one hand cradling his head gently, arms wrapped round his shoulders and holding him tucked in close.

"I'm right here," Will said, as if there'd been a question about that. "You're here and I'm here. And Sammy's safe downstairs and Hannibal is watching over him. I know it's not okay, Dean. I know that and I know you know that. I'm not going to say it is, because our lives aren't like that. I know you're trying. You're trying so hard. I am too. We're not alone. Not now. I need you to remember that for me. That Hannibal and I are going to do everything we can to make sure you and your brother are safe."

"We're not," Dean gasped out. He pressed his forehead against Will's chest and tried to hold it together. "You're not."

"Dean, I was not safe long before you and your brother came into my life. I'm not your responsibility. You're mine."

Dean scowled and pulled back. Will let him but he looked disappointed when Dean put an end to this hugging business. "Of course you are," he argued back. "We're supposed to hunt monsters and save people. We've gotta. Don't you get that? Someone did this to you."

Will twitched like he wanted to hug Dean again and Dean wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved when the guy didn't. Seriously. There was only so much a dude could handle.

"Dean, I – I understand that you've seen people hurt other people. That that's what your father is doing… following people who have done terrible things to other people and trying to stop them from doing it again."

"They're not people! They're monsters!"

Will gave him a weak smile. "We may not agree on that literally, but I think we can come fairly close." He stopped speaking for a moment, his eyes drifting off to the side like he was thinking about something. Dean hoped it was about how much Dean was right, but he doubted it.

"Dean, how did your father find out about the people he's been following? About the people they've been killing?"

And now 'following' was apparently a euphemism for hunting down and killing. Whatever. At least Will seemed to get that Dad was doing the right thing. Dean shrugged. "I dunno. He finds a case and that's where we go. This one was a big deal though, because it was a lot bigger than what he normally has to deal with, but they've been killing a lot of people and Dad's the only one who can stop them. Dad knows what he's doing. He'd know how to fix this."

Will opened his mouth as if he was going to say something else, but then he stopped and stared at Dean. At first Dean didn't get it. He wasn't sure what part of that Will was all hung up on now. But the look on Will's face wasn't one of confusion or disagreement. He looked thoughtful. Like he was considering the pros and cons of something. And that's when Dean realized how far up shit creek he was. Dad would know what to do. How to save Will. But the only way Dad could do that was if Dean called him and told him. But if Dean called him – it didn't take a genius to figure out the FBI would be on him faster than he could blink. Even Dad couldn't avoid them if they got that close. And it would be all Dean's fault. No matter what he did. He couldn't protect Will by himself and if he didn't call Dad then anything that happened to Will would be his fault. But if he called Dad, if he made it so the FBI could find him, they'd never see Dad again and Dad would never save anyone else and what if they shot Dad!

"Ah, fuck it," Will muttered before he was grabbing at Dean again and all but pulling him into his lap. "Forget it. Dean. Forget the very idea. It's fine. We're fine. Just breath for me, okay? I'll listen to whatever you have to say and we'll fix this together, alright? Just us, okay? Just tell me what to do."

"I don't know!" Dean cried.

"Sure you do. Your Dad taught you, didn't he? You just told me all about it. And you found one here and burnt it. Which was very smart of you, and I'm sure you were very careful when you did it. But if it's burnt, shouldn't we be safe now? At least for a little while."

Dean tried to think. Will was right. They could do this. It would be okay. He just had to hold it together a little bit longer. "Maybe?"

"Okay. So that's a start," Will told him and he was right. Dean sucked in deep breaths and tried to pull his shit together. They could do this.

"You believe me?" he said, trying to make it a demand but it came off a bit wobbly in the middle, something Dean was not going to admit to. Ever.

"Of course I believe you," Will said and it almost sounded like the guy did. He didn't lie all the time the way other adults did, even when it was clear it would have been the easier way to deal with Dean and Sam if he did. He said weird shit and admitted to things he didn't want to. Sure, sometimes he made a fuss about something and this whole hugging business was not going to be allowed after this, but he still treated Dean like an adult. If he said he believed him, then he had to, right? At least a little.

"Okay."

"Okay," Will agreed. "We'll figure this out together, alright? I may not look like much, but I am actually good at my job. I'll help you figure it out, okay?" When Dean managed a nod, Will continued. "And like you said, we're safer together. You, me, Sammy and Hannibal. We'll figure this out together okay."

"But I don't know how to stop witches," Dean told him, keeping his head still tucked against Will's side. He didn't the man to see his face right now.

"That's okay, Dean. That's why you've got us. Did I tell you it's my job to find people? Bad people – some of the worst kinds of monsters imaginable. If you think someone's out to get me, then we'll go over what we know together and see what clues we can tease out. For now we've got your salt lines, right?"

There was no more putting it off. Dean had to be an adult now. He pulled back, finally, moving slow but firmly detangling himself from Will. He had to wipe his face a few times, and it was probably still red and blotchy and shit, but he ignored it and focused on the problem. "Salt doesn't work on witches. I don't know how to keep witches out. They're – they're not actually monsters, but people who work with monsters. Which makes 'em worse."

Will grinned ruefully. "I bet," he agreed. "Look, why don't we ask Hannibal what he thinks?" When Will saw Dean's frown at the idea, he added, "Hannibal agreed with you on the salt idea, didn't he? He was just telling me about a number of old traditions used to keep people safe. Maybe he knows something."

Which would be kind of weird, but Lecter had given him that book on witches. Dean was pretty sure the guy was way too uptight to know the truth about things, but maybe he that it was interesting, the way professors did or something. Dad sometimes went to talk to professors when he wasn't sure on something. Maybe it could work like that. Dean nodded slowly. As long as they were willing to listen to him, it couldn't be that bad, right? They'd just be careful who they let in the house. It was a good spot to lie low for a while. Dean risked a glance up at Will. It'd do him good to stay home for a few days. Rest up. With the hex bag gone, his health should improve. And there'd be no more visions.

"Okay?" Will asked.

Dean smiled a little. "Okay."

"Good." He stood up slowly, looking a bit unsteady on his feet. "Good, because I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted. I haven't gone much today, but my body aches like I've been out running. Why don't we check on the others, then you and Sammy can – "

"What happened to your hand?" Dean interrupted. He hadn't noticed before, too caught up in his own crap to pay attention. Will had a large bandage wrapped around his palm, the good kind that stretch and stayed put even when you moved. It was sort of skin colored, so it didn't stand out but it covered a significant swatch of skin. Will hesitated, lifting his hand to look at it as if he he'd forgotten it was there. How the hell he could have, Dean didn't know. That wasn't a small booboo under there. And there was a matching bandage on Will's other hand too.

"Oh. That. Um."

Dean shivered. "What did you do?" he managed to ask. Because something had happened. Something big enough that Will hesitated to speak of it and Dean knew it wasn't going to be good. Good things didn't happen.

Will's smile was supposed to be reassuring. "It's okay. Hannibal cleaned it very well. We were actually just talking about old customs and rituals that people used to use. He – ah – showed one to me."

Dean kept his voice steady but little more than a whisper. "What kind?"

"Oh! Nothing bad!" Will promised. "Don't worry, Dean. Hannibal just wanted to do something as a kind of bonding experience, you know? Between friends. Kind of like how boys swear to be blood brothers forever. You've heard of that, right?"

Sure, he had. But he'd always thought it was stupid. He had Sammy, what more did he need? And he knew better than to go messing with superstitious stuff like that. Sure, most of it was bullshit. But you didn't take the chance that it might not be. And Will and Lecter weren't some stupid school kids playing at being cool. People like Lecter didn't do things like that. People like Lecter, who owned old books on witches and knew about laying salt lines and wanted Sammy to help 'bless' the house and talked Will into doing something that involved blood magic – that wasn't the kind of person playing around or who didn't know exactly what they were doing.

Will smiled and patted his shoulder. "Like I said, Dean, I'm sure Hannibal will want to help. You're not as alone in this as you think."


	21. Chapter 21

_Slowly, the house settled down and went to sleep. One by one the lights were turn off, each bed filled until the only thing left was the quite sound of people breathing in their sleep and the slow heartbeat of bodies at rest._

_They would wait another hour. Just to be sure._

_She would send in the two they had left. They weren't nearly as capable as her Jim, but they had lasted this long. Maybe afterwards, if the two survived, she would bother learning their names. In a matter of days she had gone from a coven of nearly a dozen, to only these sad two and her Jim. But they had a solution to the problem close at hand. And one could always make more young ones._

_"Still no sign of the hunter," Jim grumbled beside her._

_"It doesn't matter," she reminded him sharply. "Either we will handle him now, directly – or we will wait and let him come to us, this time at our convenience."_

_"I'd rather now," he complained. She hissed at him, but otherwise ignored the insubordination. Jim was her eldest and prone to temper tantrums. It was annoying at times like these. But it was also highly invigorating watching him hunt and take down his prey. That same temper made him uniquely pleasing to watch. Bloodlust was a good look on him and while it wasn't a past time she regularly indulged in, she could appreciate the ferociousness he displayed when taking down a kill. Waiting in the shadows was not something he did well, despite his many other talents._

_"Let the others earn their place," she told him. These two had been with them long enough not to be new, but had once been nothing more than two of many for her. She was now unfortunately much more reliant on their capabilities than she would have liked. But a dethroned queen had to make do with what was at hand. Once she gelded this hunter then killed him slowly, she would have plenty of time to re-establish her territory afterwards._

_When an hour had passed, she snapped her fingers. After a moment's hesitation – a hesitation that might have gotten them killed under other circumstances – the two vampires darted out from the tree coverage and looped silently across the field._

_This hunter had taken her children from her. She would return the favor._

_There was no reason to feel apprehensive. They were literally taking babes from their beds._

_And yet…_

_She hadn't survived this long by ignoring her instincts. And her instincts were to stay far away from this._

_She scowled. It chaffed to have to run from this damn hunter. It would be humiliating to be run off from one lonely household without her recompensation._

_But nothing was more important than survival. Not even her pride._

_Underlings, however, were disposable. And she was willing to risk her last two for the chance at a little well deserved revenge._

_After all, it would be easier to go back to just her and her Jim if this went poorly. Minions could be replaced. She had nothing to lose while for the hunter it would be everything._

* * *

At some point, Dean fell asleep. He hadn't meant to and he certainly hadn't thought it was possible. Things were spiraling out of his control even faster than he had thought. He'd been so hopeful when Will said he would listen. That they would figure this out together. That he believed Dean.

Dean should have known that was too good to be true. Normal people didn't just _believe_. Not until they saw it up close and personal. And it sounded like Will was getting really personal with it. Dean didn't know what Lecter was, or what he was actually doing, but there was only one kind of person in the world who worked blood magic.

Witches.

It was the only possibility. Dean should have realized it sooner. Lecter was no hunter and only hunters and the things they hunted knew what was really out there. It just didn't make any sense. Dr. Lecter seemed to actually like Will. Hell, the guy watched him enough. And the flirting. It was totally gag worthy, but it seemed legit. Dean was good at spotting liars. He'd had enough practice at it himself to be a pro. So why would Lecter give Will a hex bag? Maybe Will liked someone else or something. Maybe this whole thing between them was new and Lecter hadn't gotten rid of the thing yet. Maybe he felt bad about it, and that was why he was trying to help now.

Not that it matter. It still meant he was a witch.

But if he'd changed his mind, if he really was trying to protect Will now, wouldn't that mean the visions would stop? It was still creepy as fuck and raised some serious questions about how much Will really knew about the guy he was getting all cozy with but at least it meant nobody was dying any time soon. If they could make it long enough for Dad to come get them, then Dean could explain everything to him. Dad would know what to do.

But that meant waiting. And Dean had a sinking feeling in his gut that waiting wasn't going to be an option. But what other choice did he have?

It was maddening, and Dean had full expected to spend the whole night awake and worrying at it. But at some point after turning off the lights so Sammy could sleep, Dean had also nodded off, still sitting upright in bed. It had felt like only a second or two, but it could have been hours for all he knew. The only sure thing was it wasn't a very deep sleep, being worried and restless and on edge. So when the window opened so did Dean's eyes.

There was a man there. In the window. Climbing in over the desk pushed under it and grinning with a mouth full of teeth that caught the pale moon light.

Dean might have screamed. He wasn't sure. He never seemed able to in his nightmares so it would make sense that he wouldn't be able to when a nightmare became real. Just like when mom died.

What Dean did know was that he grabbed ahold of Sammy's ankle, the closest thing to him, and tugged with all his body weight. It was enough to send the two of them tumbling awkwardly off the end of the bed. And just in time too, because the monster had been reaching for his little brother and instead got a fist full of old pillow. Sammy cried out, high pitched and confused. He probably hadn't even seen what was in the room yet, too discombobulated by being yanked out of bed. It was one hell of a way to wake up. But Dean didn't have time to worry about that right now. He grabbed his brother under his arms and picked him up completely off the ground before pivoting enough to shove him behind him. It wasn't much protection but it was better than nothing. Dean was bigger by a good few inches and was able to fit Sammy entirely behind his bulk.

The man was cursing and shoving aside the things in his way. He was fully in the room by that point and another one was ducking in behind him, the tiny room suddenly becoming very crowded as two vampires pushed their way in. Dean and Sammy needed out. Now.

The door was only a couple of feet away. There wasn't time to think about it, only to act. Dean kept his brother tucked behind him as he hurriedly shuffled the two of them across the three feet of space that separated them from the doorway and the possibility of escape. It would have been faster to turn and run and pull Sam behind him, but he couldn't handle the idea of Sammy being the one closer to these things.

Not that it help. That was a vampire. And Dean had nothing. Not gun or a machete or even deadman's blood. And there would be no safety beyond the door. It wouldn't keep a monster like that out. There was no place safe to go and no one who could help them. But he had to try.

The lock was a stupid twist one. The kind you only needed a knife to jimmy open from the other side. But it took a moment's concentration to grab it and turn.

And in that time something reached over his shoulder and dragged his little brother away from him.

That time, Dean was sure he screamed. Screamed like he never had before in his life.


	22. Chapter 22

Will was dreaming of that night in the field. Except this time he had both boys with him and only the shotgun to defend them with. Things seemed to come out of the shadows. Terrible things. Made of teeth and shadows, pointed horns and scrabbling claws, peeled skin and black eyes. He fired. Over and over again. But nothing hit. And he knew he had only so many rounds. Only so much time to figure this out. To get the three of them out of this nightmare before it ate them alive.

Hannibal shook him awake.

His touch was warm, even to Will's feverish skin. Will opened his eyes and tried to focus on the blurs around him. They had gone to bed together that night, with little shyness and far more familiarity than Will had ever felt with a new lover. It was as if Hannibal had already made himself such a part of Will that any other intimacy paled in comparison. They had both kept to their pajamas, however. In deference to Dean's delicate sensibilities and Sammy's history of night terrors. Will's own nightmares had his pajamas sticking to him in a sweaty disgusting mess.

But Hannibal wasn't looking at him. His head was turned towards the front door, tilted like a dog tracking a sound. Will's hand snaked out for his glasses and he hastily shoved them on.

"What is it?" he asked. Because Hannibal hadn't woken him to save him from another night of dark dreams. He was clearly focused on something else.

"We are not alone," he whispered so quietly it was as if the words had been passed without a sound from Hannibal's mind to Will's.

It didn't occur to Will to doubt it. After all, he trusted Hannibal's judgment better than his own. They both sat up, just starting to detangle their limb from one another.

Something screamed. Loud and shrill and harsh and desperate. It didn't sound human and it took Will's mind a precious, damning, half a second to realize it was Dean. He shoved off the covers and slipped out from under Hannibal's arm. He'd put his gun on the floor under the bed the night before, after the boys had gone to sleep, just as he had the previous night. It seemed less obvious than the nightstand and had the added benefit that Will often fell out of bed in the mornings, so grabbing something off the floor felt natural. It worked well enough in practice. He had it in hand and was pushing himself forward like a runner at the start line when there was the sound of breaking glass. There was a thud overhead that was slightly off centered and Will's feet slid to a stop as his brain tried to catch up. That wasn't from the ceiling, but just beyond. The roof of the porch. The glass the window. Outside.

He twisted sharply, socked feet slipping easily as he pivoted and charged for the front door. Hannibal was already there, shouldering it open and then getting out of Will's way.

At first it was nothing but a sea of darkness, the small expanse of safety that Will had made for himself. But then the safety lights clicked on. Will flinched back, the sudden brightness painful. Why hadn't the lights come on before? Nothing should have been able to get near the house without setting them off. Through the disorientation Will was aware of a change in pitch to Dean's screams. More muffled, but sharper, cut off suddenly only to keen out again.

There was a scrabbling noise above and two bodies fell from the porch roof.

Or rather jumped, a good twenty feet out away from the edge of the house. And it wasn't just two adult bodies but also two child-sized ones. The two men had their backs to the house, but the boys were still visible. Sammy was tucked under one's arm as if he weighed nothing. The other man was struggling more with Dean. While he had a firm grip on Dean's neck, with one arm looped across the boy's chest, he still hadn't managed to pin down all of Dean's free limbs and the boy was fighting desperately. He wasn't screaming any more. Just gasping sharply, painfully, eyes wide and focused over the man's shoulder on Will.

Dean's attempts to free himself would not be enough. Not against what held him and his brother captive. A man might survive jumping from a second floor window without breaking anything, but he wasn't going to jump from that height and not hurt something. But both men landed easily on their feet and wasted no time moving across the yard. Swiftly.

But in a straight line.

It was the height of stupidity and maybe the most dangerous thing Will had ever done, but he fired quickly. Just one round. Aimed at the shoulder of the man holding Sam. The distance was farther than he would have liked. The lighting thankfully good from the floodlights. But even a target moving in a straight line was more of a challenge than he was used to. The slightest tremor to his hand and he could have shot Sammy. Could have killed him. But he also knew that if they reached the tree line, he was never ever going to see either boy alive again. If he was lucky, he might get called in when they found the bodies. And it wouldn't be clean. Better a bullet now. Better the chance at saving at least one of the children.

He would hate himself forever for taking the shot. He knew that even as he did it. His mind would tear this moment apart for the rest of his life, wondering what he could have done differently, living out each gruesome possibility.

He didn't miss. The shot caught the man in the shoulder, maybe a bit closer to the center than he had meant to risk. But it was a perfect hit. Dangerously close to the heart and certainly enough to drop any man in his tracks.

But this man barely stumbled. He cursed loudly and only slowed to a halt so that he could turn around and look behind. He was still young, maybe late twenties to early thirties. Brown hair, a bit too long on the top. Jeans and a t-shirt and a light jacket all in muted colors that looked washed out in the sharp contrast of night and light. Wrinkled, though. A bit sloppy. Almost ill fitting, as if they weren't his clothes but ones he had had to borrow. There was something about that that meant something, but his face was too distracting. Not because of the features. They were ordinary enough. Not quite middle America, but enough to make him forgettable. Or they would have been, if his lip wasn't curled back in a way Will had only seen on truly feral dogs. And there was something even worse about his mouth – something he couldn't quite see from this distance – but that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up and almost made him squeeze off another round in pure simple self-preservation.

He didn't. Not yet. It hadn't worked the first time, after all. And the risk to Sam was so much greater now that this monster was watching him. A monster that didn't go down, not even after a shot to the chest. The man had paused because he wanted to, the other man coming to a stop as well to see what was happening behind them, both of them with more of a sense of curiosity than any fear of the armed federal agent. It wasn't fake bravado. They weren't afraid and Will's mind couldn't quite work out why not, only that it meant he had no leverage, no options, and very little hope. He shifted his stance, correcting his aim. He wasn't the marksman Bev was. Nowhere close. He'd likely miss. Or catch the man in the chest again. Or hit Sammy. But he was out of options at this point. This was beyond what he was trained to handle. But he had to try something. Anything.

Hannibal took the decision out of his hands. In only a couple of long strides he was stepping off the porch, shoulders back, posture as straight and proud as a tree, arms held out slightly from his sides as if he was showing he was unarmed. But somehow that wasn't the message he was communicating. It reminded Will suddenly of an animal in the wild making itself look bigger and more threatening than the predator in front of it. It wasn't meek or mild. It was a challenge.

"You have something that belongs to me," Hannibal announced. His voice was sharper than usual and irrationally loud in the night. It was commanding and fit his body language.

It also had the effect of snapping Will out of whatever madness made him _believe_ that Hannibal was more than a match for what waited out there for them. Will stumbled down the steps separating them, trying to catch up while still keeping the only deterrent he had up and ready to fire at the first opening. "Hannibal!" he gasped. Because things were horrible enough already without adding another person he cared about to the danger.

Hannibal gave no indication of having even heard him. He was almost within arm's reach now, and far too close for his own safety.

The men were laughing now, lips still pulled back in matching snarls that only grew uglier now that he and Hannibal were close enough to see. There was something terribly terribly wrong with their mouths, their teeth, even their jaws. It was the mouths of predators. Of hunters. Of things that couldn't exist.

Dean was still fighting. His legs were kicking wildly, hitting from time to time with a heavy dull thunk that sounded painful but didn't seem to even register with the man holding him. The boy's free arm was red and swollen and he was now moving it slowly as if it pained him. He was still screaming and crying frantically. Denials and curses and desperate pleas. He was terrified and Will seemed to be the only one gutted by the sound.

"You are trespassing," Hannibal continued, informing them of this little detail as if it were the most grievous of their crimes. "You were not invited onto these grounds or into this house."

The man holding Dean seemed to smile, or something like it. It was horrible and Will was having a hard time looking away from it. "I think you're a bit confused there, dumbass," the man chortled. "Doesn't work like that."

The play of shadows made it hard to see. Hannibal's back was light brilliantly from the lights behind them, the simple night shirt and crisp cotton pants looking as refined as any suit with the way Hannibal stood. He looked relaxed now, shoulders still back but one hand resting in his pocket as casually as if he were posing for a picture. But his shadow was stretched out far ahead of him, as was Will's. It seemed to shifted constantly with each small move and passed over the men's faces at time, obscuring them then revealing them in stark flashes. A trick of the light. Reality distorted. A truth Will couldn't see clearly.

"This house is under my protection," Hannibal informed them.

The men laughed again and it sent a shiver down Will's back. Not because of how inhuman and cruel it sounded but because he had never heard someone disrespect Hannibal in such a way and _that_ had him feeling on the edge of something even more precarious. Which was ridiculous. But Will wasn't thinking straight right now, between all of the stress of the last few days, the disorientation of an attack in the night and the nearly overwhelming fear and belief that this was going to end in blood and death and he had _promised_ to protect the boys from the monsters in the darkness. And now he was seeing shadows and threats where there was none. This was Hannibal. His friend. The doctor. A man of refined tastes and genteel sensibilities. Not the kind of predator that Will's mind was used to latching on to.

The man holding Sam hosted him up higher in order to change his grip. "Here," he said to his friend before passing the boy, holding him out by one arm in a way that must have been excruciating on the joint but made it look like the man was passing over nothing more than a paper doll. Sammy didn't cry out. Not even once. His eyes were wide and his face pale and his hands gripped at the nearest surface, be it friend or foe. He looked nearly catatonic and Will prayed that the shock would be enough to shield the boy's mind. The man holding Dean shifted him around just as easily and now had a hand on both boys.

Will shuffled closer. The man holding the boys was his primary concern now, but now also the more difficult target. His firm grip on both boys meant that he had two squirming bodies in front of him.

Not that bullets seemed to be doing any good at the moment. There were drugs, Will knew, that could keep a man on his feet through any pain. But a chest wound like that, the amount of blood loss it should have caused, no human stayed standing after that.

But the man he had shot was steady on his feet. "And who is going to protect you, hm?" he cackled, directing the insult to Hannibal before joking with his friend. "After all, we only need the boys alive to catch this hunter."

It was confirmation of everything Will already knew. From the moment he had heard Dean scream, he had had no doubt that the 'monsters' Dean's father had been hunting not only had found the boys but had somehow managed to get past all of Will security. He had known it immediately and had just as quickly known that that information did him no good. This crime was already in play – and Will helpless to stop it.

"Ma'am didn't say anything about the rest of the blood sacks," the other man agreed, keeping up a light banter while the boys cried. It was jarring and sickening. But something for Will's mind to latch onto.

There were more than these two. He knew that. But what he hadn't known was who was in charge. That the primary was a woman and one who demanded that she be referred to as Ma'am. She had to have tight control to keep that many other killers in line and so well disciplined. It explained how they had stayed hidden all this time. How they had kept their bloody secret – right up until Dean's father had found them. The hunted hunting the hunter who had hunted them. And maybe they really _were_ the monsters Dean said they were. It made sense, it made so much terrible logical sense even though Will knew it was a lie and insanity. But standing in his yard, armed but helpless, as these creatures came in the night to take children from their beds – yes, Will could all too clearly see the monsters.

Hannibal gave no notice as he once more stepped closer. As if he had nothing to fear. As if he could fix this through will power alone. And who knew? Maybe Hannibal could. Maybe Will was the foolish one standing there with his gun, his arms starting to shake from the weight and the wait. He might as well be nothing more than one of the flickering shadows for all the difference he would make. But Hannibal was like a well of power, a black hole that pulled them all in, a rock that would not be moved, like…like… _something_! Something that Will could almost feel in his bones and in his blood, like the hot breath of something on the back of his neck that he knew could not be real but was as undeniable and present as his own shadow.

Shadows shifted and Will's eyes were tracking things that weren't there. His back was damp with sweat and his palms were burning as if someone was slowly, gently, lovingly, rubbing salt into the wounds.

Hannibal never once looked back over his shoulder to where Will stood. But Will felt him. As if they could find each other in the darkest night. As if the more Will stood there and shook and sweated and burned with fever even as his fingers went numb and cold from shock and fear, as if the longer they held their ground – the taller, the more captivating, the more demanding, the more inescapable Hannibal became.

_A bond of blood and consent._

"We were going to leave you alone, but maybe we can have a little snack," the first man was back to taunting. "That'll leave a clear enough message for the hunter of what awaits his little brats." The threats and jeering was as much a show for each other as it was for their intended victims. And while Will did not doubt for a moment that they would see it through, that it would be just as tortured and brutal a death as they implied, Hannibal merely stared back.

"Your conflict with the hunter does not involve me," he told them, voice flat other than the hint of sneering distain that curled around the edges of his precise words and rumbling accent. "But I have claim to the child and will have him returned to me unharmed."

The tone finally sank through. Hannibal wasn't approaching them as an applicant or a negotiator. He was addressing them as a noble would correct an uncouth lout. This was not their game to laugh at, but his orders to be given and obeyed. He wasn't lobbying for the safe return of the boys. He was issuing demands.

The joking stopped.

Will's heart all but stopped as well. He could handle the jeers and the taunts. He was more than happy to have the focus on him and Hannibal and not the boys. But tempers flaring meant impulsive actions and the boys were still at risk. Each time the one man grew angry, his grip tightened and he jerked on the boys' arms. Push them too far and they would lash out at the closest thing at hand. They had already made it clear that they had every intention of killing all four of them. If Ma'am wouldn't disapprove then there was no reason, no humanistic moral, to keep them from indulging. They weren't people to these men, only 'snacks'. Only blood. Only prey.

Will gritted his teeth and tightened his grip. He wasn't prey. Not for animals like these. They had no thought, no message to convey, no art or skill. Only base instincts and reactions.

"You have no idea what you're messing with!" the first man snarled.

Hannibal's head tilted slightly to the side, as if puzzled that his superiority and knowledge could possibly be questioned. "I assure you I do - while you are ignorant of your place in this world."

"You can't kill us!" he shouted back. He flung his arms open wide, the glare from the lamps highlighting him. His teeth were bright and sharp and layered in rows like a shark. "Try! Just try! Come on, human, you think you can stop me? Just try it. Because I'm going to tear your throat out with my teeth and leave you to choke in your own blood! I'm going to crush you slowly so you can feel your chest collapsing while I suck you dry. I'm going to take my time and make sure there's nothing left but a pulpy mess for that fucking hunter to find so he'll know that's exactly what we're going to-"

Will shot him.

He was much closer now, and the man wasn't moving and he wasn't holding one of the children Will had sworn to protect. So Will shot him. Then shot him again. And again. Each round was squeezed off slowly and with great care. He wanted to make sure he got the best hit he could. It was disorientingly familiar. Like being at the practice range. Almost relaxing, even. And he watched in between each jarring flash and bang as the bullets impacted and tore through flesh but there was little blood and no crumpling body.

A part of him had known it was futile. A part of him hadn't cared. They weren't human. He didn't know what they were, but he understood now what Dean's father had seen in them and they weren't human. They were a thing to be hunted down and disposed of calmly and efficiently.

They had threatened his boys.

The wide open clearing echoed painfully with each booming report of the gun. It echoed in Will's ears in a way that wasn't a flair for the dramatic but the very real precursor to hearing damage.

And then there was Hannibal's voice, as clear as a bell. "Will," he said, turning for the first time to look at him. "While I appreciate your enthusiasm, I am afraid your efforts in that direction are a bit premature and wasted at the moment."

The monster was laughing and chortling behind him. A face deformed and hideous. A thing that was once human but now nothing more than a mockery.

Hannibal's own visage was the same as it had ever been. As if this was Hannibal's parlor, and this bit of unpleasantness nothing worse than a spilt drink. And the shadows shifted and swayed behind him and Will felt the last of his control slip away from him. "I will resolve this situation," Hannibal told him. "Please conserve your…ferocity for a much better use to come." And Will had no choice but to follow where Hannibal would lead.

_By blood and consent_.

"You do trust me, don't you Will?" Hannibal asked. It should have sounded uncertain, but they both knew the truth. Will would do anything to save these boys. And if Hannibal knew how to win this game of monsters and shadows then Will would follow him. Hannibal smiled at Will. The light made the thing snarling behind him look harsh and thin and worn around the edges, while Hannibal was flushed with life and vigor and in his natural environment.

But the monsters didn't like being ignored. "He can watch me kill you before we kill him!" the one closest to Hannibal growled before lunging forward.

He went for Hannibal's neck, both hands outstretched and horrid teeth bared.

And Hannibal caught one of his arms just under the elbow. He twisted it sharply sideways and then down until there was a splintering crack. In the same twisting motion, Hannibal side stepped to bring the man's body closer and struck out at his jaw. It was brutal and efficient and should have been as worthless as several rounds to the chest. But the thing _screamed_.

It was not the expected result and the only one who didn't seem astonished was Hannibal. The one in his grasp was blubbering uncontrollably. His jaw hung at an odd angle, at the very least dislocated if not broken entirely. The other looked equally as unnerved, his face slack with shock. His grip on the boys loosed suddenly and he took a step back. This was not the easy prey and spot of amusement he had expected. Even Dean's eyes were wide and focused on Hannibal.

"How?" the boy whispered brokenly, but no one was paying attention to him.

This time it was Hannibal's grip that tightened and twisted as he literally wrung a louder, sharper keening noise out of his victim. He did it calmly, eyes fixed on the threat that was still lose and viable. There was almost a small smile on Hannibal's face as he stared at him. A taunting one. And that was enough. The man screamed like an animal before launching himself at Hannibal. It was almost faster than Will could see and with enough force to clear the distance between them in one impossible leap.

Will fired the gun once more. Instinctively. This thing was going to rip Hannibal's throat out with its teeth. But it was moving fast and the bullet missed and disappeared into the darkness. Hannibal didn't even flinch. He stood as still as a rock, while all of that animalistic rage and hate came crashing down on him.

His free arm drew back, then darted out forward in a sweeping motion that looked familiar. It was too shallow for a proper blow, arching across the man's torso from left to right. For a second, it almost seemed a misstep and Will's heart jumped painfully in his chest. But then the light caught and flashed and Will realized why the movement seemed more natural to him. He had more experience, real or empathized, with knives than with grappling.

The man's face crumbled from fury to something painfully surprised as dark, nearly black blood, spilt out of the cut. It didn't arch and spray the way living blood should, but rather dribbled out like a slow moving oil spill. The creature stumbled to a halt, hands still outstretched and grasping futilely for a prey that had not only escaped but turned on him viciously. There was a moment while he stood in shock, blood dribbling down his front, before flesher bits slipped out of the incision like detritus caught up in the tide. The thing gurgled pathetically and dropped to its knees while it tried to push its organs back in. Hannibal sidestepped the mess gracefully, still dragging the other broken one behind him like some kind of rag doll.

Will's ears were still ringing from the shots fired. His heart was so fast it hurt and felt as if he had run miles uphill. He was quite genuinely afraid he might pass out. The light seemed to flicker and move even though he knew it shouldn't and wasn't.

And in the center of it all, standing calmly and poised over the two withering monsters, was Hannibal.

His head turned slowly to face Will and he smiled beautifully. There was no blood splatter – apparently monsters didn't bleed like a normal living thing. He hadn't even broken a sweat. Only Hannibal's hair was mussed, the longer pieces falling in front of his forehead. His eyes were wide, the pupils only pinpricks in the light but still focused solely on Will. The two men cowered and withered at his feet like animals brought to heel.

"Dear Will," Hannibal called out warmly. "There is nothing for the likes of us to fear from creatures such as these. I promised you, did I not? That we would keep our family safe this time."

The wind was suddenly cold, the adrenaline in Will's blood fluctuating all over and leaving him oscillating between feverishly warm and chilled to the bone. He'd dropped his arms by then, the gun hanging uselessly in one hand but still unable to let it go. The reality of the situation was crashing down on him, as if anything that had happened that night could be called reality. He'd shot a man. Multiple times. And yet the man lived even now to cry and blubber at Hannibal's heel like a beaten dog. "How?" he asked in a whisper that felt harsh in his own lungs.

Hannibal's expression brightened further. "I do apologize for not explaining more clearly before when I said my family had traditions about such things. It would perhaps be better described as more than just tradition. As I am sure you can understand, however, that it is a somewhat complicated topic to broach until you are certain of another's temperament and suitability. But we do share a very deep bond, do we not, Will? I have thought so from the very start, but I did not wish to presume or hope beyond what was prudent."

Will stared back at him, feeling both flushed and dizzy. They shared a bond. It was such a foolishly sentimental thing to say, but when it was Hannibal who was suggesting it, it no longer sounded as fanciful and infantile. He shared a bond with someone – this man – who held monsters at bay.

One of said monsters, however, was feebly trying to crawl away while still holding his torso together. And for a creature recently disemboweled, he was doing a surprisingly good job at it. Hannibal noticed as well and frowned. He shifted the knife in his hand into a different grip and knelt down until he could reach out far enough to hook the man with it just above the hip and pull him back. Maintaining his hold on the broken one and pinning the bleeding one in place proved to be a challenge at last and Hannibal's expression turned serious.

"I am afraid explanations will have to wait, my friend. We have more pressing concerns at the moment. I have them disabled, but it will not last for long. Already this one is healing. We must act quickly if we are to get the boys to safety. There will be more where this came from."

"Ma'am," Will agreed.

Hannibal nodded. "Just so. She will be the master of this coven and by far the most dangerous."

"Can – can you stop her?"

Hannibal looked up at that, an expression on his face very similar to the one he wore just before serving his finest dinner. "I will do everything in my power to do so. But I will need your help, Will. Together, we will be much stronger. The boys will need that strength if we hope to keep them safe. This will require some sacrifice on your part, my dear. Are you willing?"

_By blood and by consent_.

"Yes." He was too far in now. He was aware of a slight tremor running through his body, but it couldn't be from the cold. He was sweating as bad as after any horrible nightmare. The shadows flickered around them, like the opposite of light reflected off of water, and he wondered if this was what it looked like when you drowned, the light refracting so weakly from above that it seemed to highlight the shadows instead of chase them away. Hannibal had made himself Will's rock, however and Will's only option was acceptance.

Hannibal nodded. "Then come here."

Such a simple request, but like a shock to his system. He might be half out of his mind, but he knew the last thing he wanted to do was move closer.

Will instinctively balked. He stumbled backwards a step. Hannibal was beckoning him to the monsters' side. There was a danger and a darkness there far greater than anything Will had seen or felt before. Far more tangible than that looming, heavy pressure he had felt that night only a couple days ago in the field with the boys. The thing he had assured them could not be real because only man was the true monster in this world. Was that creature still out there, watching him? Waiting?

If this insanity could be real, then what did that mean for the nightmares that haunted Will? The ones that seemed to hover over him and press down on him even during the daylight? Were they also real? Was the Stag? Little Sammy thought so, and suddenly it didn't seem so wild a thought. Sam and Dean had looked at the world and seen monsters and those monsters were real in the end.

The feeling crawled up his spine like antlers racking against flesh and he wasn't sure what he was more terrified of. The monsters bleeding in his yard or the shadow that seemed to follow him everywhere. Watching. Waiting.

"Will, don't."

His head turned sharply. That was the first thing Dean had said since gaining his freedom. He hadn't moved far from where he and Sam had been dropped. He had his good arm was wrapped awkwardly around the younger boy, half holding him up half keeping him tucked away. Dean's face was shiny with tear tracks in the light and his eyes were still wide and frantic with fear. His voice, though, was steady and strong.

God this child.

This horrible nightmare was so much worse than what Will had believed and it opened up the possibility of ever more horrendous things. And this child had known about them all along. Had been willing to stand alone in an empty field with only a shotgun in hand to protect his baby brother and a man he'd never met before. Who went to sleep each night knowing that only his meager protections were between his family and a gruesome fate – and that even that might not be enough. Wasn't enough. But the boy still held it together, his family and his sanity, far better than Will could ever hope to.

"Will," Hannibal called out again, this time a bit a strain in his voice as he struggled to keep a grip on both opponents. "We must act quickly. There will be time to see to the boys once this is done."

Right. Focus. Hold it together, Graham.

"Don't – " Dean cried out again and this time his voice did crack desperately.

Will felt that pain like nails scratching at the inside of his chest. But Hannibal was right. They had to move quickly now. He knew there were more of these _things_ out there and he had to do whatever he could now to help Hannibal if they wanted to survive.

Will dropped the gun. He didn't have a convenient pocket wearing only his boxers and an undershirt, and since the thing had proven completely useless, there was no point in keeping it. He stumbled forward, coming to Hannibal's side. It was difficult to do. Both of the creatures seemed to be recovering already. The bleeding one was no longer struggling to keep his organs inside – they seemed to be doing so on their own just fine now. As if the body could flow backwards in time and reattach itself. The one with the broken arm was struggling actively now against Hannibal's hold and as Will watched, it popped its jaw back into place and immediately started trying to move it. Hannibal cursed at the new found vigor, using a guttural word Will had never heard, before releasing the knife long enough to slam his fist once more against the thing's face. He then gripped it by the shoulder and twisted and yanked harshly until he had its torso pend under one knee and the arm folded back at a horrifying angle.

Will jerked forward awkwardly, more like a stutter, but still couldn't quite bring himself to come within reaching distance.

"Be careful," Hannibal warned, his voice much brisker and harsh than Will was used to hearing and it would have been frightening in its own right if it hadn't so clearly been meant as a warning to protect him. "The mouth is the most dangerous, but these things can dislocate limbs at will when pressed. Our blood bond will protect you somewhat from their strength, but I fear it might not be strong enough yet if one of them were to score a full hit. Here. I can keep this one pinned down long enough for you to finish the task." It took some maneuvering for him to shift about enough to keep both of them pinioned beneath his weight. Hannibal had always been a tall man, perhaps a bit wide in the shoulders in his suits, but he had never seemed as large and solid as he did then. But even that was barely enough as he struggled to keep both monsters in place.

"Take the knife!" he ordered Will.

It was sickening to pull it out since it was still lodged firmly above the one man's hip bone. But it wasn't like the man was going to bleed out, so Will grasped it firmly and yanked it free of flesh and dirt. As expected, the wound managed only a weak bubbling of black blood. The knife was one of his own, Will realized. His hunting knife from his camping gear. How Hannibal had found it, Will wasn't sure, but the man must have kept it close at hand. A wise precaution incidentally. It was probably the only decent knife Will had that wasn't for paring or deboning a fish. The handle was simple wood, dinted from time and faded where it wasn't slick with a lacquered of dark blood. His hand found a firm grip immediately and he looked to Hannibal for direction.

They had to move quickly. They had to get the boys to somewhere safer. Dean was counting on him to keep Sammy safe. And Hannibal needed his help to do that.

Hannibal caught his eye and held it for a moment, staring at him as if to determine something necessary. And for once, Will was not found lacking. Hannibal nodded solemnly and then gestured at the head of the gutted one. "They are vampires. A common scourge both here and on the continent. We do not have the means to burn them, so a beheading will be necessary."

_Three bodies. Three heads. Three bullets._

_And yet, something here was not what it seemed._

"What?" he asked numbly.

Hannibal didn't look up from his own task. "These are vampires, or at least that is the best word in English for the kind of animal they are," Hannibal informed him. "There is only two ways to prevent such a beast from eating its way through your home and others. Complete conflagration – or beheading. I am afraid the messier of the two is the only option available to us at this moment, Will." Hannibal's voice was still steady despite the clear struggle he was having keeping both men pinned down. Will's own struggle was much more cerebral and moral. Hannibal was asking him to behead a man. With a hunting knife.

"I cannot hold both of them forever," Hannibal told him. It wasn't sharp or demanding. He wasn't pushing Will. But he was pointing out the very real consequences ahead of them. "I caught them by surprise this time and was able to disable them cleanly enough. They were not expecting someone who knew the old ways and had the power to defend against them. But their physiology means that they are already healing and will soon once more be at full strength. If you do not help me now, we will not survive this." He managed to glance up only for a moment, but his voice had turned suddenly soft and understanding and almost too gentle for Will to bear. "I know this is difficult for you, Will. I understand that this is far too much to take in at one time, but we are without options. And despite the unpleasantness of such a situation, it does present us with an advantage."

It was hard to imagine anything good could come out of this. That had never been Will's experience. The best he had ever let himself hope for was something a bit less than awful. But maybe things didn't have to be that way. The world had changed this night. These were real true monsters, not just something in Will's head. They were, in a way, far more tangible and finite than anything Will had ever seen before. And Hannibal not only understood them but was ready and able to face them calmly. In control. And here he was offering that same serenity to Will.

"You are like me, Will," Hannibal told him and it was as if he knew that was the one thing Will had wanted to hear most. He had taken a firm enough grip on the monsters to be able to look up at Will, catching his eyes and holding him by that stare. "We are the same. The same as my family was. We are more aligned with the true nature of this world and we see the darkness that lingers always on its edges. But that knowledge can give us strength – if we are willing to take it. If we are willing to keep to the old ways. And protect what is ours by blood and by intent.

"You have killed a man before, Will. It was difficult for you because you could feel the parts of him that should have been human. But you made that choice knowing there could be no other path for you. This will be easier. Do not be afraid. This animal will not haunt you as Hobbs did. You are beyond such things now. A creature like this has life only because it has stolen it against the laws of nature. You will be helping to put things back to rights."

Hannibal inhaled deeply. "Such an act – it has power, Will. You will take of his strength and it will protect you and those you seek to protect. Do not turn aside from this responsibility, Will." His voice was suddenly harsh and demanding. Desperate almost. And Will couldn't help himself. He stepped closer, instinctively wanted to fix this. "Do not make the same mistakes my family once made by shying away from such a task," Hannibal told him. "They paid for it with their lives. My sister paid for it with hers. You do not wish the same to happen to the boys, do you? You know what will happen to them if we are not strong enough together to protect them. Will – there is so much more to you than you know. This is not a curse for you to bear but the only hope at saving what you would see protected. I can show you how to do that. But you must first do this, Will."

To do such a thing…. But Hannibal had laid out all the reasons why it must be done. This was not something Will could stop with a badge and a gun. There would be no turning these things over to Jack to do with what he did with the broken human creatures their team found and caught. Dean's father had been right all along. What other option was there when faced with such inhumanity? This wasn't an act of passion, it was merely a task that needed doing. And if it would keep the boys safe, then it was a task Will had to do. Even now he could see that the one that had been stabbed was healing. It was as disconcerting as watching a time-lapse video. Only Hannibal, and the strength he wanted Will to have, stood between them and this death.

It would be like gutting a fish. Not like killing anything human. Hannibal said so himself. This was a monster, not a person. Not even one like Hobbs. Will could do this.

Carefully, he crouched down beside Hannibal. The things were squirming viciously in Hannibal's grip and Will had to be careful to avoid twitching limbs. As soon as he was close, Hannibal reach out and covered Will's hand on the knife with his own. He used that grip to pull Will in closer, until the two of them were kneeling, sides flush together and both holding the knife. It was the only weapon they had that would actually work and Hannibal needed it still. He didn't take it from Will, however, but instead tightened his grip over Will's hand and pulled it forward and pushed it deep into the prone one's stomach again, severing the thinly healed skin and causing it to screech once more.

It was such a smooth, efficient movement that Will barely had time to register what was happening before it was already done. Hannibal gave no indication of even noticing, he just continued, focused on this task. He released his grip on the Will's hand and the knife in order to get a better hold on the second one. In the same kind of sharp clean motion, he broke its other arm before firmly pinning it down alongside its breathern.

"We will have to work quickly," Hannibal told him, his voice now sounding breathless. "Pull the knife out again," he instructed. Will did so, disturbed at not just the feel of parting flesh but also his own awareness that it felt different than a real human would have. There was no warmth or blood pressure. Just cold dead flesh, and a thick sluggish blood. "Now position it here on the neck. It is not an ideal tool, but we will have to make it work."

Will's hands moved as instructed. Both creatures were alternating between screaming obscenities and crying messily. It made it difficult to get the knife in the place Hannibal wanted, and he gouged the flesh in spots. Or maybe that was from his hands shaking. Just like gutting a fish, he had to remind himself. He had made a mess of more than a few as child when he was first learning. This was no different. He simply had to learn and the only way to learn was by doing.

This one was the one that had grabbed Dean. The boy had clearly been favoring his arm afterwards, and while Will was hopeful that it wasn't broken, he was still clearly injured. Hannibal would have to take a look at it later. He would know if it needed x-rays or not. But this thing - it had laughed when it talked about torturing and killing small children. It had cursed at Hannibal when he had dared to stop them. It was cursing even now. Threating all manner of things against Will once it gained its freedom. Some of the acts were particularly gruesome even by Will's standards. But the sight of Will's knife against the delicate skin just below the chin was sickening. How many slashed throats had he seen over the years? How many times had Will visualized such an act? Dreamt it? Felt it – with enough realism to make him question his own sanity.

Perhaps he should be questioning it now.

"Will," Hannibal gasped next to his ear. "It is now or never. I cannot hold them."

The knife wasn't sharp. He had to dig in with the point first before putting his weight behind it and driving it deeper. The thing finally stopped snarling threats and instead gurgled loudly as black blood as thick as honey poured over Will's hands and down the thing's throat. It took some time to get through the first layer of muscle and to the actual throat itself. That stopped the gurgling sound and left behind only a thin wheezing noise as the thing sucked in air down a ripped and torn throat. The arms were still moving, trying to grasp ahold of Will or Hannibal but blocked just barely by Hannibal's body. Hannibal's breath was heavy and loud, his head pressed almost up against Will's as they both struggled at their tasks. But Will kept his eyes focused on the meat separating beneath each pull and tug of the knife. On the sludge coating his hands, sliding back down his wrists, slowly coating the ground beneath them in globs.

Hopefully it wasn't unsanitary to touch. Surely Hannibal would have told him if it was.

The bone presented a problem. He had to hack away at it several times to get through. Each sloppy blow sent a jarring force up his arm to rattle his teeth. Hannibal hand reached out to balance him at one point. It was a warm pressure against his hip that helped him focus. He had to lean over the body to finish, his bare knees pressed against the thing's side and slipping in the mess. It wasn't moving anymore, which made Will's job easier.

The last bit was surprisingly difficult. He couldn't get traction, sliding about in the filth and the mud, and the head slipped to the side when he tried leaning on it, leaving it skewed from the neck and the bit of skin still connecting it twisted awkwardly.

"Grab it under the ear and turn it downward," Hannibal suggested. It put tension on the strip of skin, making it easier to saw through.

The head came off finally with little more than a slight tug. It didn't make a sound, but once the task was done Will could hear his own labored breathing.

He didn't feel any different than he had a moment before. There had been no magical point when his reality had shifted or grown or whatever it was Hannibal said would give him strength. He didn't know what he had expected, but it seemed like there should have been something when you just sawed a man's head off with a hunting knife. But there was just the quiet of the night. His and Hannibal's breathing. A slight hiccupping sob from the other monster. And somewhere distant the sound of Dean gasping in lungful's of air. The boy was crying, Will realized. Still crying, he should say. And probably in severe need of some place safe and warm. Will really ought to get him inside and out of the night. Soon. Once he and Hannibal were finished. He looked over at the other man, for the first time since starting this. Hannibal was staring back at him as fixed and as constant as the sun.

"I don't feel any different," Will told him finally, a part of him worried that he had somehow managed to bungle this rite of passage. That would be typical.

Hannibal grinned at him slowly. It was at once both boyish and fond and Will rather liked that look on Hannibal. Liked being the cause of it. He was half tempted to offer to do the next one, but his arms were shaking. Which was odd. It had been hard, messy work, but Will was used to working with his hands. This one task shouldn't have left him shaken and tender. The blood hadn't sprayed or gushed out of the wound, but it had oozed passed his wrists and down to his elbows. His knees and shins were covered in the stuff, and his thighs and chest were streaked in places where he had rubbed up against things. He needed a bath. Or maybe a good hosing down before going into the house. He grimaced and shifted, suddenly and uncomfortably aware of the gore even though it didn't really seem real. More like play-acting. A bit of theater or Halloween nonsense.

"We will get you cleaned up in a moment," Hannibal promised. Will didn't question how he knew what Will was thinking. Distantly, he was aware that he had surrendered a part of himself to Hannibal at some point. Maybe more than he meant to. But in the same way Hannibal had exposed himself to Will. He _wanted_ Will to see him and understand him in ways that Will would never have been able to guess at before. In ways that he was still uncertain of even now.

It was too much. Too much all at once. It was everything Will had wanted to know and was terrified of. If he stopped now, if he really took the time to think about it, Will knew he wasn't going to be able to handle it.

So he didn't. He knelt in the mud and blood and kept himself comfortable numb while he waited for the world to once more slide into place.

Hannibal held out a hand for the knife. The thing below him was moaning brokenly though a mouth and nose that looked more concaved than whole. Hannibal must have hit it a few more times while Will was busy. The face no longer looked human, which made things easier. Will passed the knife, flinching only a little when their hands brushed together and left dark brownish red streaks on Hannibal's skin. Hannibal didn't seem to mind. He shifted the knife into a more comfortable grip and sliced into the neck beneath him in quick long strokes that made the most of the angle and his strength. He was much more effective than Will was – the spine snapped under sharp graceful chops – but even he struggled towards the end.

"Hold the head for me," he asked politely.

Will had to shuffle about, crawling over one of the bodies to reach the other before he was able to clasp the head between his hands and still leave Hannibal enough room to sheer it off. The creature's hair was still dry and it stuck to Will's hands when he pulled them away. What a mess, he thought, staring down at what was left. The blood was already tacky and congealed and he wondered if it would be easier or harder to clean off than fresh blood. It was a forensics question that had never really come up before in his work. Bev would know the answer, but asking Bev seemed as far away and distant as asking God for advice on what to do next.

Hannibal's hands wrapped around his, closing them into fists and cradling them gently. "You did well, Will. We are almost done. The boys are almost safe. You just need to see this through." When Will glanced up, once more feeling skittish as reality sank back in, Hannibal met his gaze with the kind of focus that seemed inhuman itself. "I will not lead you astray, my dear Will. I intend to be by your side every step of the way as you continue down this path."

It was too late to worry that he might already be lost. Will was committed now. He knew that. He had to be. To keep the boys alive. To protect them from the monsters. It was almost over now. Later – later there would be time for questions and doubt and recriminations. Time for a hundred indecisions and revisions.

Right now he was covered in half rotted blood, two bodies on his front lawn and had two very frightened boys to protect.

"What now?" he asked blankly.

Hannibal nodded in satisfaction. "Leave the bodies. We cannot hide from the other ones what we have done. They might as well know what we are capable of." He smiled sharply as he said it. "If we survive the night, we can worry about properly disposing of them later."

Will nodded. "The boys," he agreed. That was their priority. He started to push himself up, bare feet slipping a bit before he found his balance. More of him was shaking now and he wasn't sure why. He felt unsteady on his feet, as if he had had the flu. Sickly. Sickening. Perhaps it was appropriate. His clothes were already ruined so he wiped his hands on his boxers as best he could before looking up.

The boys weren't where they had left them.

The air rushed out of Will's lungs like a blow to the chest. He realized he hadn't heard the sound of Dean's frantic gasps for some time now and it wasn't that the boy had quieted himself. Will's hand reached out blindly for Hannibal's shoulder, grasping it tightly, as his head jerked around to scan the tree line hopelessly. How could they have let this happen? The boys were the only reason Will was willing to do this. If it had been just him, and perhaps if it had even been just Hannibal's life at stake, he never would have being willing to go to such lengths. To sacrifice so much. This was the one chance Will had to use what he was to protect someone and if he had failed at that then there wasn't any point in continuing. With anything. He'd take the knife to his own throat perhaps. A fitting end.

No less than he'd deserve.

It was only a moment and then he saw them. Dean had Sam tucked under one arm, half holding him up, as the two of them slowly moved towards the entrance to the driveway. It was the only break in the trees around them and Dean was determinedly making his way forward one limping step at a time.

"Dean!" Will called out, his voice high and broken. He had to clear his throat before he could try again. "Dean!" he called out as he ran across the distance between them. It wasn't very far and Will's legs found new strength and stability under him when presented with such a motivation. He caught up with the boys easily, reaching out one hand to help hold onto Sammy even as he swung in front of them to block their way. Dean's face was a livid red, streaked with tears and sweat. His eyes were wide and wild and his whole body jerked away.

"Don't touch him!" he shrieked.

Will held up his hand immediately. "Dean, it's me! I'm not going to hurt Sammy, Dean. You know that. It's okay."

"No, no, no," the boy groaned and Will's chest hurt as if his heart had gone from racing to a dead halt. This was it. This was the line that was too far even for a boy as strong and brave as Dean to cross and still survive the mental trauma of it all.

Will dropped down on his knees, trying to reach out to touch Dean to reassure him but jerking back each time the boy flinched. "Dean. It's going to be okay. I'm here. I've got you. We're going to keep you safe. It's okay. Just let me help. Here, just let me-"

"Don't!" Dean ordered, pulling Sam away from him even though the two of them were barely on their feet. Sam was still glassy eyed and unresponsive and Dean was clearly exhausted and moments away from collapsing himself. "Don't touch Sammy! Don't get that on him!"

Will remembered the blood on his hands in a sudden rush. He had wiped the worst of it off, but the gore had covered him well passed his wrists and nothing short of a thorough scrubbing was going to get it off. And maybe not even then.

"I'm sorry," he apologized immediately. "You're right. I shouldn't get him dirty. But Dean, we need to get back to the house. There are more of them out there. Hannibal and I only stopped the two. There's two more traveling with them and including their leader. We need to get you and Sammy somewhere safe. I promise, it won't hurt him. Hannibal wouldn't have let me touch it if it was dangerous. I can carry Sam for you. Please. Just – let me carry Sammy for you and get you somewhere safe.

But Dean was still shaking his head. Still shaking all over, his whole body shivering violently with it. "No," he repeated over and over again. "No. You can't. I've got to get Sammy out of here. Please. Please, you have to see. Mr. Will, _you_ have to see. He's a monster too."

"I'm so sorry, Dean. I should have believed you. I do now. I'm going to do whatever I have to keep you safe. I promise." Dean held still long enough to let Will brush one hand against his arm, petting him soothingly as he tried to reason with him. But he was still vibrating with fear. "Hannibal will help us – "

"Hannibal's the monster!" Dean screamed back.


	23. Chapter 23

Christ, Christ, _Christ_!

Dean sucked in great lungful's of air as fast as he could but it still didn't seem enough. He had Sam safely tucked under his good arm, but he wasn't a goddamn idiot. There was no such thing as safe right now. If something happened – there wouldn't be a damn thing Dean could do to keep his little brother safe. He had to get them out of there. Get them as far away as possible. Even if that meant carrying Sammy the whole way and through an entire goddamn forest.

The vampires were dead.

Lecter had taken them down like they were no more than a couple of punks. He'd gotten Will to help him do it too. Dean had seen a few beheadings in his life, and the logistics might have been familiar, but that sure as shit wasn't a hunter taken down a monster. Dean might know shit about magic, which was how it should be, but he wasn't stupid enough not recognize when it was being worked. And Lecter had gotten Will to kill for it. He'd even said as much. Power and sacrifice and strength and all of that tempting shit.

That wasn't what a hunter did. Even the really esoteric ones didn't fuck around with blood sacrifices. Only one thing did, and it was at least as dangerous as a coven of vamps, if not more.

Witches.

It was the only explanation that fit. The hallucinations or familiar or whatever the fuck that evil deer thing was. The glass hex bottle. Dr. Hannibal Lecter and his fancy 'historical' books on witchcraft. The way he took down two vampires like their bones were made of nothing more than twigs and their strength more like that of a child's than a superhuman creature known for being able to flip a car. No human did that. Only another monster.

And it had its claws deep inside both Will and in Dean's baby brother.

Even now, Will stared back at him with that sad lost expression. The same one he had when he thought Dean and his Dad were crazy psychopaths. So understanding – even when he was freakin' clueless. Dean wanted to scream at him. Hit him. Shake him. _Make_ him understand what was happening.

"Dean," Will tried, his voice soft and fragile as he reached out once more to touch Dean's arm. It made his skin crawl to have vamp blood that close, but it was still Will. The guy was a mess in so many ways, but he always wanted to help, damn him. Dean wanted nothing more than to let him take control of everything. To lean into that supporting touch. But Will was so in way over his head and he didn't even know it.

"I know you're frightened," Will told him and he didn't make it sound like a bad thing. "And after tonight I can't fault you for that. I am too. But Hannibal saved us."

Dean risked a glance backwards. He hated having his back to something that dangerous. Lecter hadn't moved, thank god. He was still standing back by the bodies. He actually wasn't as bloody as Will was, just his hands and a few splatters across his chest and dark spots on his little old man striped pants. Apparently, directing other people in evil blood sacrifices wasn't as mess a job as actually carving up the sorry son of a bitch. He seemed to content to watch this play out too. But the way he watched, the way he stared… It left no doubt in Dean's mind just how dangerous he was. How much trouble Dean and his brother were in.

"Dean," Will tried softly.

Damn it. Damn it all! Why did Will have to be so nice? Why did Lecter have to come after him and not some other bastard? Dean shook his head and tried to push his way past the man. He couldn't save Will, but he could get Sam as far away from this as possible. But Will stayed in front of him. He never grabbed at Dean. Didn't try to restrain him or force him. But he shuffled back and forth to stay always in front of him, and when Dean went to push past the man it was like trying to move a statue. Will wasn't that big of a guy and it shouldn't have been that hard to shove him out of the way. But he didn't budge – didn't even seem to realize how hard Dean knocked into him – and that scared Dean even more. It wasn't natural and Dean had a sinking feeling that he knew how it was possible.

He wanted to scream. "I don't care!" he spat out. "I don't care if he killed some Vamps! Monsters are always killin' other monsters. They're the only other thing that can. Christ! You're supposed to see shit! Can't you see what he is? I won't let him touch Sammy!"

"No one's going to hurt Sammy!" Will exclaimed back. He crouched over enough to rest his hands on Dean's shoulder and tried to look him in the eye. "I _promise_. Dean, please, you have to see we're trying to help."

"He's not! He's a witch!"

That at least seemed to get through a bit. Will stopped long enough to think about that and for one moment Dean thought he might have gotten through to the guy. That he might not be alone in this. "A witch?" Will asked.

"Yes!" Dean yelled. "He's not human. Those things he did, the things he's getting' you to do – they're evil!"

"He saved us, Dean," Will replied as if things were as simple as that.

Dean shook his head and tried not to cry out of pure frustration. "Witches are all the same. They're all evil. You can't, can't, can't trust him!"

"Oh, Dean," Will said and then he was hugging him. It wasn't a bad hug. Firm but not constricting. He had Dean's head tucked comfortably against his shoulder and was rubbing gently at the back of his head. He was even careful not to squeeze Dean's bad arm or smoother Sam. But all the same, Dean sobbed in frustration. He'd never felt as alone as he did right then.

"Dean, it's going to be alright. I know it's bad, but it's going to be alright. Hannibal and I will take care of things. You don't have to do this yourself. We'll be the ones responsible. We'll take care of you. I know it's scary, and it's hard to imagine that someone like Hannibal actually wants to help you, but I promise he does. We're going to get through this together. And once it's over with, then we can talk more, okay? I just need you to hold on just a little bit longer. I know you're tired and hurt and scared, but you can do this."

Dean rubbed his face against Will's shoulder as he shook his head. It was the one comfort he'd allow himself. Then he pulled back. When Will hesitated to let him go, Dean shoved at him. He managed to wiggle free and shoved even harder. As hard as he could. He wasn't staying here. He was getting Sam out and some place safe. It didn't matter how much he liked Will or wanted to save him or wanted to just do what he said and stop fighting. Will tried to block him again and Dean fought back. This wasn't his friend anymore. This was the guy standing between him and protecting Sammy. The next time Will blocked him, Dean twisted into it, shoving his shoulder against Will's chest to distract him before jamming his elbow as hard as he could into the soft part of the man's torso and hopefully close to his kidneys. It was a mean way to fight and it only got nastier when Dean jerked his head up and tried to slam it into Will's face.

The elbow jam got a solid grunt out of the man, but Dean's aim was off with the head butt and it only threw him off balance. This time Will's grip was more firm. "Dean!" he started in a strained voice.

"Let go!" Dean yelled back. He tried hitting him with his other arm but it hurt bad enough to make him cry just trying to raise it. He managed a glancing blow that probably hurt him more than it did Will.

"Wait, please, just stop!"

"No! Damn it, no!" Dean cried. "You wanna stay and be a monster with him, you can. But me and Sammy are goin'. Let go of me!"

"Dean, please! You're going to hurt yourself."

"Fuck you!" he shouted back. "Goddamn it. No! I don't care! And I don't care about you! Go and die for all I care! We're leaving!" He struggled against Will's grip but it was like trying to wiggle free from a set of cuffs. No matter how he twisted he couldn't pull free. It just hurt. It wasn't natural and it was all the proof Dean needed that whatever Hannibal had done to the guy, it was already changing him. Already making him inhuman. Dean tried kicking, but Will just twisted them about until he had an arm wrapped around him.

It was just like when those things came through the window and Dean hadn't been able to stop them. He wasn't going to be able to stop it now either, and that only made him fight back more wildly. Sam had slipped from his grip and was watching wide-eyed. He was crying again, still silent and unmoving but he seemed to understand that things were bad. Dean lashed out with whatever he could, trying to elbow or kick his way free. Yanking hard on the arms holding him and trying to bite one of them when the opportunity presented itself. His head was spinning and his ears ringing and he could swear he felt something _shift_ in his arm right before blinding pain raced up to his shoulder and left him gasping.

"Please, please, please," Will was whispering harshly. "It's going to be okay, Dean. Please! You're hurting yourself." He voice shook and he stumbled over the words as if he was the one in pain. He didn't hesitate to take advantage of Dean's distraction, however, and wrapped his other arm more securely around Dean's torso before sinking to his knees. He was practically curled over Dean now, holding him tight and rocking gentle back and forth.

Dean whimpered and cursed but didn't give up trying to wiggle free. Will pressed his cheek against Dean's temple. He was crying – Will was. Dean was too angry and scared and tired to cry any more.

After several long moments, once Dean truly did not have any strength left to fight back, Will stood up still holding Dean closely in his arms. "Sammy," he called quietly. "Can you please help me get your brother inside? He's hurt and we need to get him some place safe."

Will's arms were still wrapped around him and he wasn't getting away – he wasn't going to be safe anywhere. None of them were.


	24. Chapter 24

Dean was far too old to be carried but somehow Will managed it. He seemed to weigh far less than he should have. Either that, or the adrenaline from the night was making him stronger. Part of him was braced for another violent outburst. It left him feeling both determined and sick to his stomach. Dear brave Dean. He didn't know how to give up on a fight. Especially not where Sammy was concerned. Will didn't kid himself. This respite was only born of pure exhaustion. Dean wouldn't give up.

Dean had screamed bloody murder when Will had refused to let him go. Screamed like Will was the one hurting him.

Somehow, Will had to make him understand that this was for the best. That he and Hannibal only wanted to help him. But it was like the field all over again. Dean knew what he had been told about the world. That there were people you trusted and loved – and everyone and everything else was trying to kill you. And once more, Will was willing to stand defenseless before that and was incapable of leaving the boys to face such damnation alone. He'd just have to show Dean that there was a better choice. He had done it once before, he could do it again. He had to.

Sammy, bless him, seemed to understand. He walked along side Will, holding on to the bottom of Will's dirty t-shirt like it was a leash connecting the two of them together. He was walking on his own now, and nodded when Will had checked on him. Will needed to get both boys inside the house and check them more carefully. Dean's arm needed attention, and both of them had small scrapes that should be cleaned and bandaged. And that was just the parts he could see. The parts he could put a Band-Aid on and pretend it was okay.

Hannibal would help him fix what they could. The other man had kept his distance. He must have been able to hear what Dean was accusing him of, what Dean thought he was. Staying back was clearly the best choice and Will appreciated him trusting Will to manage on his own. But Hannibal hadn't been idle. He'd shifted the bodies around, laying them out in an orderly fashion that had more to do with Hannibal's sense of sensibility than anything like respect. There was more blood on him than there had been before and he was carrying something wrapped in the jacket of one of the dead men – dead monsters that was, not dead men.

He looked up as Will can puffing along towards the house, but he didn't move any closer. Just nodded towards the safety of the house. But his eyes traced over Will's face and down to little Sammy's, checking for something. He seemed reassured at what he saw because he went back to finishing his task.

Will had more important things to worry about. There was the awkward moment as he stopped to gather up his useless gun. He couldn't ask Sam to hand it to him, but force of habit left him unwilling to leave it. The rest of the walk to the house seemed longer than it truly could be and left him shaking from the exertion worse than the boys were. The high from the adrenaline must have been wearing off, though oddly he didn't feel tired or weak. But he was starting to shake and he had to lock his arms to keep a firm grip. He walked more quickly once they neared the house, wanting to get the boys in and safe before he became too dizzy.

Somehow he got both of them up the front steps and into the main room. Dean went on the bed, with Sam clambering up behind him and scooting as close as he could. The dogs were huddled together in the back corner of the room. They hadn't barked, not once that night. Seeing them huddled together so tightly, so frightened, so clearly aware that there was evil in the night and that the flimsy comfort of Will's house and home wasn't going to be enough to protect them – well, Will could understand it. Even now, they were still visibly cowed, even if dear Winston whine at him in greeting.

"Keep an eye on him for a sec, okay Sammy?" he asked, hoping a task might help bring Sam back to them. The one true thing he could count on was the two boys looking out for each other. And sure enough, Sam nodded firmly before wrapping one hand around Dean's. It made Will smile, even if it was only a weak one. He darted into the downstairs bathroom. He kept his first aid box there, with everything he might need to fix his own stupidity and be prepared to treat an injured dog, so it was both well stocked and easy to get at. Which meant he was only out of the room for a few seconds, but Dean had already managed to stand up and was eyeing the door like he might make another run for it.

"Dean," Will said softly. He stayed by the door to the kitchen, not wanting to startle the boy. He looked even smaller in the soft faint light of the house. He was still in his tee-shirt and boxers, barefoot and tousled headed. Like a child who had gotten up in the night looking for a drink or bathroom. Or rather, that was what he would look like if you ignored the mud on his feet, the scraps and angry red welts, the awkward way he was holding his arm and the clear swelling along the joint, the tiny bits of broken glass still caught in his hair and the terrified look on his face. The boy was swaying gently on his feet, almost as if he were rocking himself comfortingly and not from exhaustion.

"Dean, please sit down. I should get some ice on that arm."

Dean didn't turn to look at him. He was still staring at the door. Probably judging his options. Hyper awareness was common after trauma. And Dean had displayed that kind of behavior since day one, which lead to the truly uncomfortable thought that this might not be the first time something this terrible had happened to the boy. Or even more disturbing, that this wasn't the worst.

Dean's good arm shifted slowly, his hand reaching out to his brother as if the motion were purely instinctive.

"Dean," Will interrupted, his voice firm even as he tried not to frighten the boy further. "You need to sit down." When that didn't get a reaction, he went with the blunt truth. Dean did better with clear honesty. "I need to keep you here, Dean, for your own safety. If that means chasing you down, I will do it. There's more of those things out there, and you and your brother are their primary target. I won't let them get to you. Even if that means holding you here."

Finally, Dean's head turned, slowly, to stare back at him. His cheek was bruise and swollen, and his eyes were dilated even in the poor light. He looked afraid – of Will. Will's heart sank but he knew there was no other option now. They were all in this mess together and there was nothing he could do right now to fix that. He could only focus on the things he could still affect.

Dean didn't fight him this time when he gently nudged him back away from the front door. He allowed himself to be moved to sit on the bed almost meekly. But the expression on his face never changed, as if he had woken up to find that Will was actually one of the monsters and not the person trying desperately to help. So Will talked to him, as calmly and soothingly as he did with the worst of his strays.

He started first on cleaning off the mud and the blood from Dean's face and limbs. He'd need to get the boys changed out of their dirty clothes. And probably get something warm in them. It was almost humorous how similar it was, taking care of little boys and rescuing stray dogs. They both needed a bath, a little warmth and some food to fix them up. And with both, trust would always have to come later.

But little boys felt trauma in a way that ran much deeper and left more permanent scars. Each passing moment of silence made Will's stomach churn just a little bit more in dread.

"Please talk to me, Dean."

At first, Will thought he wouldn't answer. Dean refused to make eye contact now, and the irony that it was Will trying to force the issue wasn't lost on him. When Dean did speak, it was more of a murmur directed at his lap than a response.

"You won't listen."

Will breathed in and out slowly and reminded himself that he had no right to expect more this quickly. That if Dean needed this time to doubt him than that was Dean's right. That what Dean said now was born more out of past experience and fear than an analysis of their actual personal relationship and interactions. "I will," he told him, firmly. "I may not agree with you, but I will always listen. Haven't I?"

"Maybe," Dean conceded. His voice fluctuate a bit more, actually engaging with him but also cracking a bit around the edges. "Yes. I don't know." He shook his head suddenly, his face twisted into a frustrated frown. "How can you and yet still not get that we're fucked?"

Will flinched. "We are not fucked. Hannibal and I are going to protect you."

Dean finally looked up and for a moment Will was relieved to see that some of the terrified look had left the boy's face. His eyes weren't as wide and jittery. Instead they were narrowed. Angry. At him. "You can't protect anyone, Graham, so maybe you oughtta start worrying about yourself first!" The words were harsh and sneered out and probably true.

Will's hands shook and he had to force himself not to pull away. "I know I'm not really at a hundred percent, but - I think Hannibal's right that –"

Just at the man's name, Dean moaned as if the sound were being slowly squeezed painfully out of him. It made Will startle and he nearly dropped the disinfectant. His hands were clumsy as he tried to carry on. He had to struggle to focus on what he was doing and find the right words to explain this to Dean.

"He's trying to help us, Dean. You have to try to understand that." Will floundered, trying to find a way to put into words what he had realized holding that gun and knowing it was useless. Dean had always known that these were literal monsters – something not even human to begin with and far more dangerous than anything Will had seen before. Yes, Will hadn't truly believed him before, and that must have been difficult, but Dean also wasn't the one having to work through an existential crisis like Will was at the moment. It wasn't an excuse. Will was not going to make excuses or argue for accommodation when there were lives in danger, but he was abstractly aware that his whole world had been changed in one night and that at some point he was going to have to deal with that.

Even if right now if didn't _feel_ like the world had turned upside down on him so much as it felt like it had finally slid into place. Hannibal was right. Hannibal had known the truth all along and all of this time he had been trying to help Will. It all made so much more sense now, and surely Dean could come to understand that. Everything they had done was necessary. No matter what.

"We never would have gotten you back if he hadn't stepped in," Will told him quietly but as earnestly as he could manage. His hands were shaking and he knew, intellectually, that he was probably in shock. Probably more of a mess than he realized. But if he stopped to think about it, it would only be worse. There wasn't time for his weakness. Hannibal was right about that. These things, they weren't human. Dean's father understood that. They had to be killed. There wasn't another option. There would be no rehabilitation. There was no reasonable doubt. They hadn't had a choice. And if Hannibal thought what they did, how they did it, might give them some extra layer of protection, then surely that was the only reasonable choice. "There's something to this," he pleaded with Dean. "The things that he's showing me. Things are so much clearer now than they were when you and I met. I understand now."

But Dean kept shaking his head. He didn't try to pull away from Will's administrations but his body kept rocking back and forth as if the urge to run away was so strong it couldn't be fully contained. "You're even more fucked up than you were," Dean muttered. His voice was harsh and strained, as if he wanted to be cruel but was struggling not to cry. "You're just in so deep now you can't even see it. He's a _witch_ , Will. What do you think he's been doing to you all this time?"

Hannibal hadn't done anything to him. Had he? Jack had brought Hannibal in as a glorified babysitter at the beginning and there had been a time when Will had seen him as nothing more – and possibly even worse. But that seemed so long ago now. So much had happened to both of them in the time in between that it was hard to think of Hannibal as an outsider. Time after time Will had shown just a little bit more of himself to Hannibal and each time Hannibal had risen to the challenge. Because that was how each conversation had gone. One challenge after another that had somehow, slowly, turned into one of the closest friendships Will had ever had in his limited experience.

This most recent change to who they were to each other seemed even more natural. After all, Will had let him so far into his mind that having him in his bed as well just made sense. It was maybe even good for him. The last few weeks had been increasingly difficult. The stress and the nature of the work he now did played havoc on his health. He knew that, but the headaches had reached the point of being nearly debilitating – nearly hallucinogenic, except it didn't count right, if you knew you were hallucinating? It was just days before that Will had been standing in a field, all alone, shivering, frantic, considering suicide as the most humane option left to him and hallucinating that a _stag_ was stalking him.

He didn't feel that way now. He felt more solid. Grounded. Like he was seeing things more clearly. His head didn't hurt at all now. And the answers to everything seemed so easy. Hannibal was helping him with that. And Hannibal would show him how to see the real monsters in the world and how to protect his home and those in it from those monsters. He had already proven that he knew how and was capable of so much more than Will would have guessed. He said Will had that same possibility in him. Almost as if there was some kind of connection between them. Maybe that explained why Will's mind was always getting caught up in Hannibal, always focusing in on him, even before he realized that there was more to Hannibal than his polite demeanor and profession.

This was right. Will was sure of it. It was all so simple and easy to see, he was almost confused why Dean still had doubts. But he'd take care of the boys and there would be time later to worry about such things.

"It's going to be alright, Dean. I promise you that. I will do whatever I have to to keep you and your brother safe. Hannibal understands that." He cupped Dean's face gently in both hands. They were the same hands that had sawed a man – a monster's – head off that night with a hunting knife and it only made him appreciate even more the value and vulnerability of what he now held in his hands. "I promise you, Dean. You have to trust me."

Dean didn't pull away. He wanted to believe Will. Will knew he did. Just like he knew it was hard for the boy to trust someone else after everything that had happened to him.

"I can't," Dean finally declared, in a voice as quiet as it was firm. "Not with Sammy. Not when you won't trust me. Haven't trusted me. Or believed me. Or anything. I can't."

Why did everything always come back to that? Why couldn't Dean see that while yes, Will had been very wrong about that before, this was completely different? That there was no reason to distrust Hannibal?

This time it was Will who pulled back. He just didn't understand. Why couldn't Dean see that this was the only option? They had to do whatever it took to stop the monsters, didn't they? And you needed power to stop something like that. A strength that Will didn't have until Hannibal showed him how. It was as if something that had always been just out of reach was now pulled warmly in his hands, beating along to his own heartbeat and washing away any doubt or uncertainty. He didn't want to question it. Not when it worked. That was all that mattered. All he had to do was accept it.

It was upsetting that Dean couldn't comprehend that. The frustration was almost enough to make Will angry. And that wasn't the right reaction to a child being confused and upset. But that didn't stop him from feeling it like an itch crawling across his skin. Will clenched his shaking fists and barely managed to keep ahold of himself. Dean had a right to feel the way he did. There was no reason for it make Will feel so – so – _something_. Angry, he guessed. Upset, maybe. Unnervingly defensive. As he was under threat.

"There is no reason to be apprehensive," Hannibal announced as he stepped into the house.

Dean startled badly, but Will wasn't caught off guard. Of course Hannibal was right there. Will had somehow known that, even when he though Hannibal was still out in the yard. It felt like Hannibal was always right there. Always following him, always watching. For so much longer than just now.

Hannibal looked different in the muted light of Will's home. There had been a moment out in the front yard when Will had looked at his friend and seen something else, something almost frightening. But once more the good doctor stood in front of him, still as capable and determined as ever, but familiar now. He had smoothed back his hair at one point, attempting to restore some order to his appearance, but it had had the unfortunate side effect of smearing dark blood over one half of his forehead. It had an oddly aesthetic look to it, like some bizarre form of modern art makeup. Only Hannibal could make something like that look as dignified as if it were part of a carefully scripted fashion piece.

He stayed paused at the door, keeping his distance even as his eyes took in everything in the room. He didn't do something as crass as smile at Will, but he stared for one long moment that went beyond basic social norm and made it clear it was meant to. He had a makeshift tote dangling from one hand, made out of what looked like someone's jacket and that was stained with blood along the bottom. The knife was nowhere to be seen, which was probably good given Dean's unsettled state of mind.

"How are the boys?" Hannibal finally asked.

Dean hadn't moved since Hannibal entered the room other than to grip his brother's hand tightly, as if he thought someone might try to take the other boy away again. He didn't look up or over at Hannibal, but Will could see the tension and sharp attention in his frame. Will had done all he could to patch the boy up. His hands and face were clean now, at least, and the small scraps dabbed with antibiotics and bandaged over where appropriate. It didn't even begin to cover what was wrong with him.

Will thought about reaching out once more, to squeeze Dean's hand or pat his shoulder, something to show he was still there to support the boy. But Dean had made his own feelings very clear and Will needed to respect that. It left will feeling a bit lost. Hopeless. Helpless. Unable to offer help, that was. Not the one beyond saving. He wasn't the one who needed it. Even if he felt bereft of something. Dean was supposed to lean on him, not the other way around. Besides, he was fine. He didn't need help. He had Hannibal, after all. Hannibal would keep him straight and steady.

Will stood up and moved away, joining the other man by the door. Even now it was hard to meet his stare directly. So much had changed and was changing a little bit more every minute and Will's poor brain was still struggling to keep up with all the input.

"Dean's arm is hurt, and its more than I can treat," he said before floundering, at a lost for how to put things into words. "He's upset," he finally settled on and it sounded weak and hollow. "He's shutting me out and I don't know what to do," he admitted, because Hannibal had been a doctor and was a psychiatrist and while a deeply root part of Will objected to the idea of turning Dean over to such things, he was still adult enough to recognize that this went far beyond his own abilities to mitigate.

Hannibal nodded solemnly. "I will handle it. How is little Sammy?"

Will glanced over guiltily at the smaller boy. Sam hadn't struggled as much and seemed to have fared better for it. Will had been so focused on Dean's distress that he had all but over looked the other boy. "He's not hurt," was the best Will could manage. "Not physically at least."

Hannibal nodded. "Why don't you take him to be washed while I look to Dean's arm."

Both boys were filthy. Dean's clean face was the glaring contrast. They'd both need baths and fresh clothes but it would be worth it to wash off the stain of what had happened.

"Dean's not…" Will trailed off. He wasn't usually one for mincing words or being anything other than brutally blunt, but he was talking to the man he was sleeping with about how the child he cared for thought he was a monster. It was about the height of social awkwardness for Will, which was both impressive and oddly fitting. Of course he had this kind of thing in his life. "Dean's not feeling very safe right now." It was an understatement, but Hannibal was used to dealing with difficult people. After all, he had put up with Will's own prickly exterior with far less justification.

"I am aware," Hannibal agreed with that slight uptick to his tone of voice that made it clear he did and found it humorous in his own unusual way. "I will speak with him."

That was good. Should be, at least. Hannibal knew what he was doing. He had been around the boys almost as long as Will had. There was no reason for Will to hesitate.

"You have already spoken with him, Will. He has heard what you have to say. I can take it from here. Sammy needs you."

"Of course," Will agreed. It was better if they divided their efforts. It made sense. He still didn't move.

"Will," Hannibal murmured, reaching out to touch him, his fingers sliding slowly down the outside of his arm before curling around his wrist and pressing against the pulse there. It made the thrumming pain in his palms pulse in time with the man's heartbeat. "We are safe now. Take care of Sam. I will see to the rest."

There was no reason to argue with that. Will needed to focus on Sam for now. There was nothing else he could do for Dean. Besides, maybe if Dean saw that his little brother was safe and well cared for, he would relax some. Maybe he would listen to what they had to say. Will nodded and pulled away. He didn't bother with something as shallow and insincere as a smile, not under circumstances like these. But he reached out to gentle pat Dean's back as he talked to him.

"Hannibal's going to take a look at your arm. See if it needs immobilizing. We'll take you to get it scanned later, okay? I want to make sure nothing's broken. I'm going to go wash Sammy off. He's – there's a lot of dirt that we should get off of him. We'll be just down the hall."

It wasn't just dirt on Sam and as Will feared, as soon as he drew attention to the issue, Sammy seemed to realize that as well. "Mr. Will?" he asked timidly, one hand reaching out to smear through the red on his arm. It wasn't his blood, thank god, but they should get it washed off of him as soon as possible. There was no need to worry about evidence and every reason to not want to risk some form of cross contamination.

"It's okay, Sam, we'll get you taken care of," Will told him, this time managing that elusive smile. He reached out a hand and helped him off of the bed. Sam's feet hadn't even hit the ground, however, before Dean was latching onto the back of him and trying to pull him away.

"Dean," Will tried, his voice cracking a little and not at all coming out in the soothing tones he was hoping for. He didn't want to have to argue with him over this. He didn't know if he could take too much more of arguing with Dean that he was safe and that things were going to be alright. It made him feel more fragile each time he tried.

"Dean," Hannibal interrupted, coming up to stand just behind them. "Let your brother go. Will needs to take care of him the same way I need to take care of you. They will be right down the hall. Your brother is in no danger from Will."

Dean's eyes were wide once more as he looked between the three of them. Will wasn't sure if Hannibal was being stern or merely firm in the face of great upheaval, but Will tried his best to emote concern and comfort. It wasn't a normal facial expression for him and he hoped it communicated at least half of what he wanted it to. Just as Sam looked prepared to shrink back and hide as well, Dean slowly released his brother. He didn't look away from him, not when Will hosted him up into his arms and not when they made their way out of the room. He was still staring after them when Will gave his last look back before turning to focus on getting Sammy into the only proper tub this old house had and finding as many towels as possible to get him dry afterwards and keep him warm.

Hannibal was right. Small steps. He would take care of Sammy now and trust Hannibal to manage Dean. Once they were all safe and clean, there'd be time to talk about what happened. They were all still alive. Right now, that was the only thing that mattered.


	25. Chapter 25

_"Let your brother go. Will needs to take care of him the same way I need to take care of you...your brother is in no danger from Will."_

Dean kept staring even after Graham was gone, taking his little brother with him. He wasn't sure what was worse, letting Sammy out of his sight or not watching the thing in the room with him. Because Lecter was a thing, a dangerous, deadly monster in a human suit and he wasn't holding back out of the goodness of his heart. He had made that quite clear. Keeping Sam here with him would only put the other boy in just as much danger as Dean was now in. Lecter was right. Sammy wasn't in danger from Graham. The real danger was in this room, just waiting to 'take care' of him.

Lecter set down what he was carrying and crouched before Dean. "Your arm, if you would please."

There was no helping it. Dean turned to face him head on, eyes wide, heart pounding, trying not to hyperventilate right then and there. What did the man want his arm for? Did he still have the knife? He'd need more blood if he was going to do more magic, right? Which was horrifying enough to even think about a thing like this using any part of him for something evil, but what if he wanted more than just a little blood? It was going to hurt so bad, Dean knew it, but there was nothing he could do now, nowhere he could run, and no one still sane enough to help him. Lecter had Graham so thoroughly rolled it was a miracle the guy could still string two words together that wasn't just parroting back whatever Lecter said.

Lecter stared back at him as passively as a statue, or something else equally cold and dead inside. "Will says it was injured during this unpleasantness. I am a trained doctor, even if I no longer practice."

Dean managed to get his tongue unstuck. "…I'm fine."

"No, you are not," Lecter corrected before holding out his hand. "Your arm, please. I have many other things yet to do this night and I would like to get this matter sorted out and taken care of before proceeding with more important things."

Dean wasn't offended at not being an important thing. He'd be happy to go the rest of his life never coming to the attention of something like what was before him. If Lecter wanted to make this quick, then Dean might as well bite the bullet. It wasn't going to get any better stalling. And if he were honest, he was scared to try that tactic. This was the monster still trying to play nice, at least for now, and it was probably in Dean's best interest not to piss it off if he could help it. Not when he was just some dumb kid without a weapon in sight.

Still, it was hard to bring himself to uncurl his arm. It ached, bad. The kind of deep ache that meant something was seriously wrong with it, hidden underneath the skin. He didn't really want anyone touching it, much less Lecter.

But there was nothing horrifying about the man's grip. His skin was cold and still a bit damp with blood in places. But there wasn't a scorching burst of magic. There was no scaly hide or gross disfiguration. And perhaps most shockingly, he didn't squeeze or twist or yank on Dean's arm. Not even a little bit. He maybe wasn't as tentative as Graham had been, but there was nothing but professionalism from the man. He turned Dean's arm carefully and felt along the bone. His questions were clear and precise and familiar. Did this hurt? Could he bend each joint? Push back when pressure was applied? He did squeeze a little along the length of Dean's forearm, checking for a reaction each time. It was sore, and Dean winced, but it there wasn't the shooting, binding, mind numbing pain of something broken.

"Most likely a severe sprain," Lecter announced as if they were two normal people having a reasonable conversation and one of them was not an evil, murdering witch. "I am afraid we are limited in what we can do at the moment, but it is likely Will has some medication we can give you to numb the pain until such a time as we can have it properly treated."

Dean stared at him. Treat him? Like he was likely to survive long enough to need that. Dean knew what Lecter was, and Lecter had to know that Dean wasn't going to sit by idly and let him corrupt and destroy Graham – much less get his hands on Sammy. They both knew what was happening here.

Lecter looked up when he finished his inspection. He was still crouched in front of Dean, his hands now hanging loosely between his knees and deceptively harmless. His face was unevenly lit, the lines on it dark with shadows while his hair was brightly haloed. Except for where the blood was streaked through it. "The vampires are dead, Dean."

Yeah, he figured that one out for himself, thanks. Most things were very dead when you sawed off their heads.

"I understand this may be difficult for someone from your background to understand, but it was Will and I that did that. And it was he and I that saved you and your brother from what would have been a very violent death. That is the reality you will have to come to terms with. Will's growth and potential is something I will not compromise on. This is much more important than whatever notions you might entertain, and I will not see it endangered by any rash behavior on your part. In the interests of that, please allow me to clarify that my primary concern is William Graham. I have been watching him for some time now, as I am sure you are aware."

Christ. He had known when he met Graham that something was stalking him, that there was something seriously wrong with the guy. He had had no idea how serious it was. A ghost maybe Dean could have handle on his own. Or some kind of creepy spirit. But a full fledge witch, with some kind of sinister European heritage, and the ability to take down _vampires_ like it was nothing – that was way beyond Dean's level. Hell, even Dad would be hard up to deal with something like this. And this _thing_ had been stalking poor Mr. Graham for who knew how long…

Lecter seemed to almost smile and Dean suddenly understood what people meant when they talked about a shark's smile. "This – introduction – of his to the world you and your family inhabit was perhaps a bit premature, but certainly not insurmountable. Will has always had a weakness for helpless things such as you and your brother, and Sam shows a great deal of potential. It would be a shame to waste such an opportunity."

Dean's head reeled. This thing wasn't just a threat to Sam because it was generally a blood thirsty monster but it was specifically targeting him. Why'd it have to be Sammy? Lecter claimed he saw something in him, but Lecter was a freakin' nutjob. Why couldn't he have fixated on something else? But Sam had been the first one to meet Graham. He'd been the one to see the evil deer spirit thing when Dean had seen nothin'. Maybe there _was_ something special about Sammy, but it had nothing to do with Lecter and it was not something Dean wanted Lecter even thinking about. Not that there was much Dean could do about that now. Lecter had been holding all of the cards since day one. That whole bit about how good it would be for them to stay with Graham, sticking around in case they needed help, playing family with Graham – that was all just part of this fuckin' plan. And Graham had led them straight into it like blind idiots.

"As I said, however – Will is my primary concern," Lecter repeated as if he were giving his word on something. "So if the means by which I ensure your continued obedience and noninterference requires threatening, harming, killing or eating your brother, I will do it. Just so we are clear with one another, Dean Winchester." He smiled. "You are expendable Dean, but I don't have to threaten you, do I? You understand the situation perfectly well." He tilted his head slightly, clearly examining Dean as if he thought he might find a use for him one day, perhaps as an ingredient or some else equally messed up. "Perhaps it would comfort you to know that this is what is best for your brother and for Will. They will never be normal and they will need the strength I can give them to withstand the things in the world that would happily destroy them. And who knows, maybe one day you too can come to benefit from this. You want to kill the monsters, do you not, Dean?"

It was hard to focus on exactly what Lecter was saying when his brain was too busy freakin' the fuck out. But Lecter wasn't going to be ignored and he waited with thinly veiled impatience for Dean to reply. "Yes."

"Good. I do too." He reached down and patted he blood bag by his side. "This is how you do so. It is far more advanced than the fumbling about in the dark that your father has done, and much more effective at defending yourself and your territory – if done properly and fully embraced. I will make sure another vampire never touches your brother again."

"By turning him into something even worse." Damn him. Damn him to hell. Dean might be scared shitless but he wasn't going to swallow that without fighting back.

Lecter merely shrugged. "If that is how you wish to see it. You will not survive with that manner of thinking any more than my family did, but I will. And I will see to it that Will does as well. Your brother may be a bonus, but he is not necessary. Remember that.

"Now then, I have some work to do in the kitchen. Will will be back shortly with your brother and then we can all sit down for a pleasant meal."


	26. Chapter 26

There was something therapeutic about helping Sam get cleaned up. Washing the blood off of Will's hands was a simple matter, really. He'd need to take the time to really scrub at his nail beds if he truly wanted to remove all trace, but for now a little soap and water did the trick. It was almost anticlimactic how easy it was to remove all visible trace. It certainly didn't bring any sense of absolvement. But helping Sam wash his face and change his clothes and warm his poor little toes and fingers – that felt like actually accomplishing something. It certainly seemed to help Sammy come back to himself.

"Is Dean going to be okay?" was the first thing Sam asked when he started talking again. A quick rub down with a warm wash cloth seemed to do wonders for his state of mind. He went from barely responsive to leaning into Will's touch and interacting with his surroundings once more.

Will brushed the hair back from his face, both as a soothing gesture and to make sure there was nothing clotted or tangled in it. He had done the best he could to clean the boy up. "Yes, Sammy," he told him. "You're both going to be fine. Hannibal and I are going to make sure of it."

Sam nodded but with a frown. "But Dean's upset."

"It's been a difficult day," Will soothed, ignoring how massive of an understatement that was.

"But Dean's upset with you," Sam explained and Will realized just how dangerous a ground he was on. Sam might be young and generally amenable, but Dean was the beginning and ending of his world. If Dean truly hated something or was truly afraid of it, Sammy would be too – with the same kind of single minded focus Will was used to seeing out of the older boy.

"I know," Will tried, not even making an attempt to deny it. "But he's tired and confused right now. We'll get everything straightened out."

Sam kept his frown but the nod this time was more affirmative. He'd agree for now, and that's all Will needed. He just needed a little bit of time to figure out what all this really meant. As soon as things calmed down, he would do just that. Sit for a moment and just think without this sense of barely holding things together. Once he knew the boys were safe and that nothing was going to get at them and that Dean wasn't going to run away – then he could think without this overwhelming fear that at any moment things were going to go terribly, terribly wrong. That they were already wrong and it was too late to do anything about it.

"Come on," He told Sam, trying to cheer both of them up at the same time. "We should get back to Dean, right?" Except, when he went to stand up, his head swam alarmingly. That's what he got for flying out of bed in the middle of the night. He wasn't a young cop any more. The only excitement in his life was supposed to be chasing down strays and hoping his car would start in the cold. Just staying bent over to care for Sammy seemed to have done a number on him. He could feel the blood rushing to his extremities, his fingers tingling painfully with it, and for a moment he thought he might pass out. The world shifted in the most disconcerting of ways, his feet firm beneath him even as his head felt like it had rolled off of his shoulder. Spots formed in front of his eyes, black blossoms highlighted by bursts of red and orange. It should have made him feel lightheaded and weak in the knees, like he need to sit down or else fall over. But instead it was more like too much caffeine, too quickly. Like his heart was pounding fast enough he chould run or fly or lift twice his own weight as if it were nothing. He ought to be doing _something_ with all this energy even if the rest of him felt like he was dissolving around the edges.

"Mr. Will?" Sam asked.

"I'm okay," Will murmured. Because Sammy shouldn't be worrying about him.

"You don't – " Sam stuttered. "You don't look okay."

Will managed a smile or something like one. It was perhaps a bit too strained and sardonic but hopefully a little boy like Sam wouldn't notice so much. "I am. I'm fine. I feel much better now, actually. Come on."

Sam didn't look convinced, bless his cynical heart, but he took Will's hand obediently enough and followed him out of the bathroom and back into the main living room. Dean was still huddled on the edge of the bed. His arm was wrapped and nestled in a sling held close to his body, and a blanket had been draped around his shoulders, but his eyes were still wide and frantic and Will could see his sharp hiccupping breaths even from across the room.

Sam immediately dropped Will's hand and ran to Dean's side. Will didn't take it personally. Seeing the way the two boys curled around one another like puzzle pieces was heartening. If nothing else, despite all else, there would always be the two of them to take care of each other. It was reassuring. Like knowing there was one part of this crazy, violent world that would always be safe.

It was Will's responsibility to facilitate that.

"Doing okay there, Dean?" Will asked. He wasn't really expecting much of an answer but the complete silence was disheartening. "Where's Hannibal?" he asked. He had to prompt the boy again before he answered.

"Kitchen."

But of course. The world had shifted, vampires were real, Will had beheaded a man in his front yard, and Hannibal was in the kitchen. Apparently even when the world went insane, Hannibal would find comfort in food. And maybe that was what Will needed. Lord knew he didn't keep to a healthy schedule where food was involved. Maybe his blood sugar or his iron was off or something. It might explain why he felt the way he did.

Will drifted towards the kitchen door, lingering on the threshold so he could keep an eye on the boys but still talk to Hannibal.

"Okay?" he called out. It seemed like the question of the hour and there was no reason for them to stop lying to each other.

Hannibal was busy at the stove, cooking god knew what. Will wasn't exactly in the habit of keeping his kitchen well stocked, but every time Hannibal came over, he seemed to find something in the far corners of his freezer, refrigerator and cabinets that somehow added up to a fine meal fit for any restaurant. Even now, after everything, he was focused on the task at hand.

"Perfectly fine," Hannibal called back without even looking up from his work.

Will left him to it. If it let the man calm down and feel once more in control in the face of all of this insanity, who was Will to question it? He moved back into the sitting room. Sam gave him a weak smile when he check in on them, but Dean stared right through him as if he had ceased to be real to the boy. It was worrisome, certainly, but nothing he could fix now. He sat in the chair nearest them.

"Mr. Will?" Sam asked.

"Hmm?"

"Can Dean and I still stay here?"

A very serious, very miserable question for such a little boy. Did Sammy somehow think this was their fault? Or that Will wouldn't want them any more just because things got a bit rough? Granted, this probably wasn't in the scope of what most caretakers signed up for, and Will had never officially signed anything, but he had made Sam a promise. He was going to stand between him and the monsters. Surely Sam had to believe him on that. Will had no intention of leaving the boys or of letting anyone else take them. Ever.

It should have been startling to realize he was thinking of terms of years and not just the immediate situation, but it was the one sure thought he'd had this evening that didn't have him feeling caught off balance. He had to cling to that, he felt, or he might go insane. This was where he was supposed to be and what he was supposed to be doing, so he was going to see it through.

"Mr. Will?" Sammy's voice was much sharper this time, and significantly closer.

Will opened his eyes and found the boy standing at his knee. He was frowning with a look of intense concentration on his face. Dean was half on his feet behind the other boy, looking frantic once more, the blanket that had been wrapped around his shoulders clutched tightly in one hand and falling off his shoulder on the other side.

"Yes, Sammy?" Will asked.

Sam scowled and Will had a moment of disconnect as he tried to figure out what he could have done in such a short span of time to upset the boy so. "You wouldn't answer."

Will tried to smile even as he flushed. Christ, the poor boy must be worried, Will should have responded immediately. "Of course you can stay. I told you I'd protect you."

Sammy didn't stop frowning. "Okay. That's great. But I've been calling and calling your name over and over and over again and you wouldn't answer. You didn't even move."

Will stared at him. What?

But Sam didn't expand further on the topic. He stared for a moment before shuffling back into Dean's reach. The older boy pulled him in close as if Will was now the thing that Dean was afraid of. Will tried not to take offense at that. Honestly, he could understand Dean's hesitance. It really was a miracle that Dean had held it together so well for so long. Any other person would have been gibbering in fear. But Dean was always focused, always steady. Will felt such affection for the boy that it really was a warmth in his chest, one he could feel pulsing in time with the heat in his hands. Will smiled fondly at them.

The boys continued to stare, the room silent except for the distant clinking of Hannibal in the kitchen.

"I'm sorry," Will finally offered, realizing that they had been talking about something serious. He was having some trouble focusing for some reason and he struggled to find the socially right thing to say. "I must have drifted off."

"Your eyes were open," Sam argued.

Maybe he was more tired than he thought. He pushed himself up into a more alert position but the chair was soft and it was hard not to just lean back into it. He tried to explain. "People can sleep with-"

"You looked like you were having a seizure or somethin'," Dean announced sharply. It was the first time the boy sounded like his usually smarmy self since this night had begun.

"I'm fine."

"Keep tellin' yourself that."

"Dean," Hannibal's voice was sharp and sudden and it startled Will as badly as the boys. He was standing in the kitchen door way now, Will's raggedy off-white apron wrapped around his hips with crisp precision. He didn't give Dean any other instruction, the sharp tone apparently enough rebuke. Will would have to talk to him about how best to handle Dean's temper and the outbursts that where bound to happen after a trauma like this. Hannibal was the expert, so surely he knew what he was doing, but it made part of Will want to cringe and close up himself to hear it. Dean was much more fragile than other people probably realized. He needed more from the world that what he had been getting.

"The meal is ready," Hannibal told them formally, as if announcing the commencement of a ritual or some form of performance art and not the midnight snack that it was. But food sounded excellent right then and Will could smell what had before been merely a background detail. Garlic and oil, something that smelled like pork, and who knew what else. It wouldn't have occurred to Will to eat something at a time like this, but suddenly he was starving and the boys surely must be hungry too. Boys always were. And anything Hannibal made was guaranteed to be far superior to anything Will could whip up, even at his best.

Will pushed himself up slowly, his body seeming to resist the idea. He was as stiff as if he had sat for much longer than a handful of minutes. Maybe he had been sitting longer than he realized. "Smells good," he admitted to Hannibal, knowing the man would appreciate the compliment even if they both knew Will didn't have nearly as refined a sense for such things. He was lucky if he could identify the basic herbs when they were the highlight of a dish. Anything more subtle was lost on him. But he could still appreciate the simple things in life, and Hannibal had fed him enough times already that Will was looking forward to it.

"Come on boys," he said before heading them along towards the kitchen table. Dean balked momentarily, looking uncomfortable with leaving the area and what must have become the safe space of sitting on the edge of the bed. He gave Will a dark look when he motioned him forward, but Sam was already moving forward compliantly and Dean had to scurry along behind him or risk being left.

Hannibal had set the table at some point between Will sticking his head in earlier and their arrival now. It wasn't nearly as elaborate or refined as what Hannibal was prone to, but there was a minimalist order and sensibility to it that had Will's mouth twitching to smile. Leave it to Hannibal to make a feast out of leftovers and an emergency. Each seat had a folded – paper – napkin and one of Will's utilitarian emergency candles was placed in the center and lit. There was a plate serving as a platter, stacked with chunks of chicken or pork, the latter more likely by the smell. Whole baked potatoes were in a bowl and wrapped in a towel to keep warm while a glass measuring cup was serving as a gravy boat fill with a white sauce flecked with what looked like pepper.

It was modest and straightforward but it was warm and filling and looked just about perfect. Hannibal could probably elevate toast to therefore unknown pinnacles and still make it appear effortless.

The boys both hesitated, looking suddenly shy and uncertain of their place at this table. Which was silly. It was no different than their morning had been. And Will understood what this meant for Hannibal. This wasn't a public presentation meant to impress the rest of the world. This was something Hannibal specifically made just for them. It had meaning to it that Will was just starting to comprehend. He had always known cooking was important to Hannibal, but he had never thought much about why before. Which suddenly seemed very odd. It wasn't like him to glaze over such an important detail of who a person was.

"Take a seat," Hannibal told them as he gestured for Will to take the one next to him. Sam followed his example and scrambled into the one across from him. Dean kept his eyes down, but moved to his own seat and sat gingerly on its edge, his shoulders tight as if his hand were clenched under the table or as if he were pain.

"Just try to eat a little something, Dean," Will told him. "It will make you feel better. Then you boys can try going back to sleep. " Will flinched at his own words, his mind catching up with the rest of him and cluing in that sleep might not feel very safe right now. "Down here, I think," he quickly added. Lord knew he'd sleep better having the boys close at hand. The world had just become a much scarier place and Will knew from past experience and past trauma that it was going to take him a while to rebuilt his idea of what was safe. It was okay if it took him a awhile. He knew how to live with that kind of consuming hypertension and awareness. But the faster he could get something more like normal set up for the boys, the better. "For now, let's all sleep down here, okay?" he suggested. "Like a slumber party."

Hannibal nodded in approval. "An excellent idea," he said as he placed meat and potatoes on each of their dishes. "It would be best if we could keep an eye on both of you. Just for now. Until things are more settled. Please, eat. I'm afraid the preparation is simplistic, but it is nurturing."

Will huffed out a laugh at that. If it had just been him and the boys, they probably wouldn't have done better than TV dinners or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Hannibal's cooking was guaranteed to be healthier. He started in as soon as the boys were dished up, something warm to eat exactly what he needed. The meat was saltier than he would have expected from Hannibal and tough. But whatever Hannibal had found in the back of his freezer was likely so frost burned that a bit of toughness was to be expected. It was probably a miracle that it was even editable at all. His second bite wasn't as bad, washed down with a little bit of the whiskey Hannibal had put out. He had even offered some to the boys, no more than a mouthful each and clearly watered down, with strict instructions to enjoy it slowly.

But Dean refused to touch it.

Will raised an eyebrow at him, surprised at the sudden hesitance. Dean was so cocky most of the time, so determined to prove himself an adult. He would have thought that the boy would have jumped on such an opportunity to embrace that kind of thing. It probably would also help the boy to finally relax, but that likely wasn't the right kind of coping mechanism for Will to be encouraging. He was aware of his own flirtation with alcoholism as a means of avoiding his own problems. It was only his own paranoia and discomfort with how impaired it left him that kept him from falling so far into a bottle that he couldn't get himself out. But nothing about his own life should ever be taken as an example for a child.

"There is more if you would care for it, Will," Hannibal told him. He was working his way much more slowly through his own serving but seemed pleased with the gusto that Will approached his food.

He flushed but smiled back. "I didn't realize I was so hungry."

Hannibal smiled back. "Our work today was perhaps more significant that you have yet realized. It will take some time for you to adjust. It is only natural that your body would crave nutrients."

Perfectly logical. Lord knew, left to his own devices, Will was not very adept at taking care of his body the way he probably should. Certainly not to the degree that someone as precise and controlled as Hannibal likely did. Maybe regular, healthy meals would be a staple of his future. As far as changes made to accommodate a new lover went, this one would likely be easy to adjust to as long as Hannibal kept making such delicious meals. It was a nice thought. One Will would be content to dwell on and examine and imagine the various possibilities and implications of…it was certainly a more please train of thought that how exactly he'd gotten here. The last time he had held a knife. Was this meat harder or easier to cut than living flesh? He wasn't sure at this point. There was certainly less blood but conversely the knife was much smaller and not nearly as effective at sawing through…

"The sharing of food has always been important in my family," Hannibal was saying. "As it is for most cultures. There is something uniquely binding about such an act that transcends all creeds and environments. Something spiritual – Sam, it will taste better warm, please eat it now before it gets cold – the timing and presentation of a meal are just as important as the source of the ingredients and the preparation. This is made by my hands, from substances provided by us both, Will. Here in your house, in the aftermath of our survival over our opponents. Such an honor builds connections, you see. And reinforces ones that have already taken root."

Hannibal's voice was as smooth and warm as good liquor and Will could almost see the kind of world paradigm that must have influenced Hannibal as a young boy. The idea of family as a center, of things provided and consumed in an endless loop of renewal. Death and life, both one and the same. The idea of safety so intertwined with such practices and yet always the feeling that one missed step meant opening the whole system up to decay and danger from monsters in the dark.

"Sam, I must insist you eat."

And yet…

Will's own meal was now gone, meat, potatoes and all even though he was still left with a slight hunger for more. It had only been a few hours since their last meal together, but Will suspected he would always crave what Hannibal put in front of him. Dean had made some halfhearted attempts at stabbing his potato, but he was struggling using only one arm and didn't seem that interested anyway. Sammy hadn't eaten a bite yet. He hadn't even touched it.

"It's okay," Will told him. "Sammy, it's okay. What's wrong?"

"He will feel better once he eats," Hannibal assured him. He shifted, one arm coming up behind Will's chair as he leaned in. "You do feel better yourself, do you not, my dear Will? You have done very well today and you need your strength. This will give it to you. It is only fitting, after all. You have concurred death today and at to the victor go the spoils."

Dean's fork cracked sharply on the rim of his plate when it fell from his fingers. Maybe the sling was making him clumsy. Maybe his other arm had also been injured and wasn't up to the task. Will started to lean forward, vague memories of his own father and conjecture from watching other families urging him to offer to cut the meal into smaller bite size pieces for him. Surely Dean couldn't argue about that when he was injured, even if it might embarrass him to be treated like the child he was.

"Dean does not have to eat if he does not wish to," Hannibal announced, a hand on Will's shoulder urging him to stay put. "He is grown enough to make that choice for himself, regardless of whether or not it is in his best interest to do so. But Sam should finish his meal. I am afraid I must insist upon it. He is a growing boy, after all, and will benefit from all of the care and attention we can give."

Will nodded. He couldn't force Dean to be a child, even if the boy was owed the opportunity. But he couldn't forget that Sam's needs would be different from Dean's. "It's okay, Sammy," he told him. Because he shouldn't think it wasn't. Life would go on for them. They had survived this. Hannibal was right, it was important for them to embrace that and continue with their lives. But when he looked at Sam, the boy wasn't reassured. In fact, he looked even worse than before. Any good that may have come from getting him cleaned up and warm seemed to have evaporated. Gone was the shell-shocked look, yes, but in its place was a sobbing child. Red cheeked, Sammy sucked in great lungfuls of air far too fast to be good for him while tears ran down his face and past his chin. Each scrunched up blink of his eyes brought a fresh torrent but he still stared at the table as if he expected something even worse yet to happen to him.

"Sammy," Will's voice cracked. "It's okay, Sammy. I'm here. It's okay. What's wrong?"

"Sam will be okay, Will," Hannibal told him. "We have made sure of that. You and I. Together. We are alike, you see. And little Sammy is also like us. We are all very fortunate to have found one another. This world is not kind to those who see it for what it truly is. And even less so for those willing and able to do something about it. My family learned that the hard way. They thought they could continue through this world the way other people do. Willfully blind to its darkness even though they _knew_ better. Unwilling to do something about it. Unable to take the strength they needed, not even to protect themselves and their own homestead. For generations, our family had kept to the old ways. We had made the _necessary_ sacrifices, the ones needed to keep us strong so that we in turn could protect the people. What is necessary is never wrong, Will. My family failed when they decided propriety and plebian squeamishness was more important than having the strength to survive. We paid the price for that. Myself. And my sister. Just in the same manner of which the boys almost paid that price tonight."

Hannibal had had a sister. It was like finding the missing piece to something. Will had known for some time that Hannibal's history had its own dark spots. He was too controlled, too careful, to have gone through life untouched by its chaos and misery. Will had always been able to see that part of him, but not its root. Not its cause. Childhood trauma made sense. Hannibal never showed any of the signs of having once been a victim himself, but it would have had to have been something that had effected him deeply. A sister would make sense, younger, more vulnerable, and killed at a time when Hannibal couldn't have protected her. He never blamed himself for her death, after all. That was clear. But other people were to blame. Monsters in the night. And a family too weak to do what they should.

Hannibal's smile grew, as if he understood that Will saw things more clearly now. "But we are not blind, Will. We are not unable or unwilling. I have known that – known that for some time now. You, dear Will, are much more than Jack's golden goose. You are a fighter – and only those who are willing to fight, to kill, to survive will withstand the monsters. You want that for Sammy, do you not, Will? The strength to survive what is out there? What will be coming for him? Tonight was only a small incident. We will have to be ready at all times for more. You agree, don't you Will? We will have to do what is necessary to be ready at all times. And to do that, we must take what we need to have the strength we need to be able to so."

Will nodded but his eyes were once more on Sammy. The boy was so upset. It didn't make sense. Why would he be crying now? They were safe, and warm and had the comfort of family and good food. Why was he more frightened now than before?

"Will, you agree, don't you?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Good. I knew you would." His fingers brushed against Will's, slipping into his palm and running lightly over the wound there. The bandage had fallen off long ago and the skin was hot and tender to the touch. He should have wrapped it again, but the idea always seemed to skitter away from him when it was convenient to do so. Hannibal's touch hurt but it also made Will's fingers tingle in a way that was almost pleasant and it was easier to focus. His head had felt wozzy ever since they had come back into the house, but now the world seemed to be moving at the same speed he was. "I want what's best for you and Sam. What is good for you is also good for me. We are stronger as a whole than separate. If we bound ourselves together, permanently, then we would be capable of so much more…."

There was a crash and Will's attention snapped away from Hannibal just in time to see Dean's plate go skidding across the table, slamming into Sammy's and sending the whole mess tumbling off of the table. It was like a slap to the face, the noise shocking Will just as much as the insult must have burned for Hannibal.

"Dean!"

The boy was on his feet but shaking bad enough he didn't look like he would be for long. He looked like he might faint. He also looked like he might bolt at any time.

Hannibal stood up slowly and Dean's eyes followed him the entire time. The boy's face was pale but his mouth was one tense line the way it had been when he had shoved Will behind him and stood there with a shotgun in his hands.

"I can see we are not going to reach an understanding," Hannibal told him.

"Sammy's not eattin' that shit. Ever."

"Dean!" Will scolded, his voice sharp and high with shock. Dean was certainly never going to be a polite young man, but he damn well knew better how to be grateful.

"You are not in a position to determine that," Hannibal answered, his own voice staying perfectly level and controlled and probably exactly what an adult should do in a situation like this. It wasn't even Will's cooking and he felt his own temper sorely frayed. How on earth Hannibal could remain so calm, Will didn't know.

"Like hell!" Dean snapped back. "I won't let it happen!" The boy was yelling now.

"Dean!" Will scrambled to his own feet, one hand going out to clasp Hannibal's arm in a gesture of reconciliation. The muscle under his hand was clenched tight, the only sign that Hannibal wasn't as peacefully serene as he seemed, and he shrugged off Will's hand politely but firmly. "Calm down!"

"It is fine, Will," Hannibal assured him, gesturing for him to sit back down. "Dean and I have already discussed this and he understands the situation. He is more than welcome to leave the table, if that is the choice he wants to make. But Sam will eat."

"You're going to have to kill me first," Dean growled back and god, but he meant it. Whatever this was, whatever had gotten into Dean to believe this, had gotten in so deep he was willing to die for it.

This couldn't continue. They had to fix this. To help Dean understand that no one here was going to hurt him or his brother. But Will couldn't understand how they had gotten to this point. He couldn't see how Dean saw and that left him without the faintest idea of how to get through to him. How to help him. And Hannibal was right to be firm with him. It was probably what Will should have done from the start and not indulged as much as he had. But his stomach sank at the very idea and he could barely restrain himself from barking at Hannibal to back off.

Sammy wasn't as well disciplined. He scrambled out of his seat and wrapped himself around Dean with his face buried into his side and wailed.

That was it. Will pulled away from Hannibal and hurried around the table to the other side. As soon as he rounded the corner, however, Dean was jerking him and his brother aside, moving to keep as much distance between them as possible and shoving his brother behind him. He didn't say a word but the way he stared at Will was clear enough.

"Dean…"

"No."

No explanation. No entreatment to understand, to see. Just a denial.

Now Will was the one who felt faint. How had he messed this up so badly? Why on earth did he think he could handle this in the first place? Hannibal had been so confident that he could, but he had obviously failed in just about every way imaginable. Even now, he didn't know what to do, couldn't do anything, and that in and of itself was another failure. Hannibal clearly hadn't given up yet. He came to stand behind Will, his hands bracing Will up. His palms warm against Will's skin even through the thin fabric of his undershirt, clear enough Will could almost feel the lines where Hannibal's own hands were cut.

"That is enough, I think. You are upsetting Sammy, Dean. And upsetting Will. And I will not have that. I think it is time you left the room."

"Fine with me," Dean snapped back. But he wouldn't turn his back to them, not even to leave, and shuffled along the side of table pushing Sammy along with him.

"Just you, Dean," Hannibal ordered.

Dean stopped, but kept Sammy tucked in close behind him. "I'm not leavin' Sammy."

"You have already made your choice, Dean," Hannibal told him coldly. "That is something you are going to have to live with."

"Fuck you."

As comebacks went, it wasn't the most inventive or productive. But it probably expressed Dean's sentiments quite clearly. It wasn't funny. Hannibal sure as hell would not find it amusing. But Will felt the fight rush out of him.

"Let them go," he said with a sigh.

"Will!" Hannibal objected, but Will hadn't expected him to like the idea.

"But only into the next room," he told Dean, making sure not to glance over at the other man. He didn't need to see his frustration and disappointment with Will. "I mean it, Dean. No further. It's far too dangerous and you know it. I want you were I can still see you. Maybe – maybe Sammy would like to spend some time with the dogs. I find them relaxing."

Dean still wouldn't look at him, but he nodded jerkily.

"Will, I really must insist," Hannibal interrupted, moving towards the door himself.

"Just let them have a moment," Will argued back. "Here," he wrapped the last two baked potatoes in the towel to keep them warm and held them out to Dean. "If you get hungry," he explained.

Still no eye contact from Dean, but he reached out enough to yank them out of Will's hands. It was a poor peace offering and with accepted with matching ill grace.

Hannibal wasn't willing to let it go at that. "This is more important than indulging Dean's insecurities-"

"This is exactly more important," Will interrupted, silently hoping Dean would forgive him for suggesting that the boy might be anything less than able to handle anything. "Right now, it's about making sure the boys are safe and _feel_ safe. We, obviously, are not going to be able to give Dean the latter right now and Sammy will never accept it if Dean doesn't. It'll be okay, Hannibal. We'll be right here if they need us."

"You do not understand," Hannibal growled.

"Are we in danger here in the house?" Will asked him. Because he was getting tired of arguing this point if there wasn't a reason. "Should we leave?"

"No," Hannibal answered firmly. And just like that, the sudden show of temper was over and gone. "No," he repeated. "We have nothing to worry about as long as we are here together." He stared at the boys for a moment, before shrugging as if the discussion had never interested him much in the first place. "The boys may leave. Perhaps Sam will wish to eat later."

For once, Dean had enough sense to keep his damn mouth shut. He took advantage of the opportunity while he had it and scurried out of the room with his brother in tow. They kept the door between the two rooms completely open and Will made sure to keep an eye on where the boys were positioned. He didn't want Dean even going near the front door. He was certain the boy understood the danger of what was out there, maybe more than Will did, but he felt threatened here too and that fear could make Dean very unpredictable, even to himself.


	27. Chapter 27

Dean made sure not to turn his back until they were out of the kitchen and in the dubious safety of the living room. Will kept watching them from the kitchen, but he didn't seem to mind if Dean kept the two of them huddled by the fireplace. For now it would do.

"Hang on, Sammy," Dean told him. He turned his brother so he could get a good look at him. The brat was crying fit to choke himself on it, but that seemed to be the worst of it. "Hold it together for me, man. We gotta figure out how to get out of here."

Sammy nodded jerkily. He managed to get a hold of himself enough to gasp out, "but Mr. Will! He – he –"

"He's got his own problems and we can't help him," Dean told him firmly. God, it felt like a cop out and Dad would never let a thing like that stand, but Dean was out of options at this point.

Sammy had an even harder time of it accepting that. "He ate the – the – the bad stuff."

Dean's own stomach turned over at the thought. It was still empty, thank god, and full of acid that felt ready to surge up and choke him any moment. "I know," he told Sam. "It's – everything all kinds of fucked up."

"What _was_ it?" Sam asked.

Dean hesitated. "I – don't know. I have an idea, but I really fuckin' hope not, because that's a whole new level of ew. Besides, you were the one who won't even touch it." Which now that he thought about it, had been weird as fuck. Sammy had been fine going into the room. The kid was tough and bounced back from shit. When he came back with Mr. Will all freshly scrubbed and talking, Dean had known he was fine. He might not know what Dad was really doing when he went on his business trip but the kid was smart enough to understand that their lives were a hell of a lot more complicated and dangerous than other peoples'. He had rolled with it all this time. It had scared the shit out of Dean to get that close to losing Sammy, but hadn't been surprised to see Sammy handle it all much better than he had.

Sammy had been happy enough to have a meal right up until Lecter handed him a plate.

"Why did you freak out?" Dean asked. "Not that you shouldn't have!" he hastily reassured. "Good move here, buddy. I wouldn't trust a thing that man offered, not even if I was dyin', but you kind of had a melt down there."

"There's something _wrong_ with it, Dean," Sammy told him with as much conviction as a six year old could manage. Which, when you were talking about Dean's annoying know-it-all little brother, was a surprising amount.

"Yeah, I'd say so," Dean agreed. But he hadn't thought anything of it, at first. Lecter was a grade-A freak and most likely one hell of a dangerous witch. And while that was enough to have Dean hesitant to eat anything the guy gave him, it wasn't like they hadn't been doing just the that over the last couple of days. He hadn't really been thinking about the possibility of poisons or some kind of voodoo in the food at the time. He hadn't eaten anything because this whole night had him about ready to up-chuck and food was the very last thing he wanted. And thank god for that. Because Dean wasn't sure, but he had a really nasty suspicion that some of the ingredients in tonight's dinner came from the two dead vamps out front. He wasn't sure how or what and he sure as hell didn't know _why_ but he also sure as hell didn't wanna. Dean hadn't actually eaten anything, just pushed it around some. Sammy had refused to even touch the table, much less anything on his plate. And Mr. Will – well, Graham was already fucked. It probably couldn't get any worse at this point.

"Okay, Sammy," Dean told him. "We gotta get out of here. And fast."

Sammy nodded along even as the little shit had to argue with him. "What about the bad guys?"

Which, granted, it was a pretty good argument. "We're just going to have to risk it, Sammy. They might catch us, but they might not. Staying here we're sure as hell cooked."

"What about Mr. Will?"

"I told you, Sammy, we can't help him. I – I wanna help him if we could, but we can't. So. You gotta just focus on what we can do, alright?"

"But what if the evil deer comes back?"

"Pretty sure he already has," Dean muttered.

He couldn't get near the front door without Graham seeing and raising all kinds of fuss. They were lucky to have gotten out of the room as it was. Dean was pretty sure Lecter had plans for getting rid of him as soon as he could get the two of them alone again. And granted, cussing at the big scary ass witch was maybe not the brightest idea, but Dean had been fresh out of better ones. Breaking down and crying like a little baby wasn't exactly helpful. He really hadn't expected Will to stick up for him like that. The guy had been out of it ever since he started cutting up things with Lecter. He kept insisting everything was fine, even when nobody was asking, like he was trying to convince some part of himself that shit wasn't screwed sideways. And he seemed to be only getting worse. He'd all but passed out in the living room while Lecter was cooking and he seemed confused every time someone tried talking to him. Like he didn't understand what was going on around him. Or maybe he just didn't wanna. Graham was a bright guy and he seemed to get things a hell of a lot faster than most people. Maybe he understood a lot more than Dean gave him credit for, he just sure as hell didn't wanna.

Who knew. People were notoriously unpredictable when they realized their whole world was a fucking lie. Dad had been on the receiving end of the fallout of more than one freaked out civilian.

But Graham had stuck up for them, even when Lecter was doing that creepy 'I know better' routine. If nothing else, he had kept Lecter fuckin' away from Dean. And had let Dean keep Sammy with him. That was enough for Dean to forgive the guy a little. But Graham wasn't going to let them just stroll out of the house. So they had to figure out plan B, and quick.

The big window was too close to the door, but there were smaller ones along the side that were still more than big enough for Dean and Sammy to fit through. The locks were normal house ones, easy to flip from the inside, but the frames had been painted recently and getting it open silently was a bitch. He got it open enough to climb through and shoved an oversized book standing up in between just in case. He didn't want it suddenly slamming back shut and either making a racket or worse, separating the two of them. He waited a moment to be sure no one had heard before shimming through the opening and dropping to the other side. The house was up just high enough that he could just barely see back through the window. Sammy was watching him closely, eyeing the distance with a health respect.

"Come on," Dean urged him, holding out is arms. "I'll help ya down. You won't fall." They'd done this number enough times over the year that Sammy trusted him. He might give his brother a bad time whenever he could, but he'd never left Sammy hanging or done anything stupid that might get him hurt. Sammy started to just stick his head out, which was the wrong way to get out a freakin' window, but he seemed to think better of it at the last second and pulled back, a stupid frown on his face like this was a problem he just couldn't figure out.

"Come on, stupid," Dean told him. "Feet first."

Sammy nodded but he didn't look very convinced. He shuffled around a bit, getting a good hold on the frame, but stopped again. "Dean," he whispered. "I can't!"

Dean rolled his eyes. Of all the times for Sammy to get nervous. "Come on! It's not that hard. Look, it's not even that far down, and I _promise_ you I'll grab you before you even let go. Look, you can even fall on me, if that's what you're worried about."

"Dean!" And this time, Sammy did sound really, genuinely scared. "I can't! I'm tryin' to and I can't!"

Dean inhaled deeply and pulled himself so his arms where hooked on the ledge. It hurt – bad – using his arm like that, but there'd be time to bitch about his wounds later. His feet were just barely off the ground, toes even scrapping the dirt as he struggled to keep himself up. "What's the problem?" he asked, trying to figure out what the sudden hold up was. He'd seen Sammy scramble his way up trees and over old cars like a damn monkey. He shouldn't have any trouble with one little window, but maybe the shrimp couldn't reach a good hand hold or something.

Whatever it was, it had Sammy _crying_ again which was enough to get Dean freaked out.

"Come on, buddy," Dean told him gentle. "Just, you know, put your hand there or something and try sticking one leg through first, and the rest will be easy, I promise."

"I tried that, Dean!" Sammy wailed, at least managing to keep his voice down so it came out as more of a tortured whisper.

"Well, try it again!"

Sammy huffed sharply, that bratty temperament suddenly making a reappearance. And for once Dean was kind of happy to see his piss little brother again. Sammy reached out and grabbed the frame and started to shuffle closer but then stopped again. He held that for a moment before shifting around to try leading with the other side of his body, but still didn't even so much as get a foot off of the ground.

"What are you doing?" Dean hissed. They didn't have time for this! "Try, will ya!"

"I am, Dean! I can't move any closer and it hurts!"

Dean dropped to the ground so fast the wood scrapped his skin. Shit. Shit, shit, fucking shit!

"Dean?" Sammy's panic voice came through, but he still didn't make a move out of the window.

Dean pushed down the panic and hopped back up again. "Okay," he said. "Okay, we'll figure this out." It shouldn't _hurt_. If their lives were fuckin' normal, Dean might have thought that Sammy was frozen up in fear or something. But their lives were a freakin' horror movie and not being able to move – having it hurt to even try – that was some supernatural shit. Dean looked at the window frame, inspecting it closely for anything carved into it or something. The paint was still new but not super fresh. Graham probably painted it in the last year or two when he was fixing up everything else. The salt from the other night was still spread across the bottom, but that was it. Dena stared at it for a moment then cursed. He wiped away as much as he could reach, muttering "damn Lecter!" He wasn't sure how the other man had done it, since they'd been in and out of the house sense then, but it was the only explanation he could come up with. Lecter found some way to use the salt to trap Sammy _inside_.

"Come on, try now," he told his brother, the fear now in his voice.

Sammy grabbed the frame with both hands this time, that mulish look upon his face, but no matter how much he frowned at it and struggled he seemed incapable of even lifting a foot farther. He made a whining noise in the back of his throat, the use of even words too much for him right now and Dean wanted to scream. He had to get Sammy out of here. They had only a few minutes and even that wasn't likely to be enough, but it was their only chance. Lecter had Graham so deep under the guy barely knew what was happening around him. They couldn't count on him to protect them. Damn him! Dean should have shoot the idiot and made a run for it when he had the chance.

Dean tried pulling Sammy through, but it was no use. It was like Sammy was nailed to the ground and no matter how much Dean tugged, he wouldn't move an inch. It just caused him a lot of pain and there was only so much of watching his little brother whimper and cry that Dean could take. So Dean scrambled his own way back through the window, careful to make as little noise as possible. Together they tried different combinations of getting Sammy started but nothing worked and they ended up only with a tangle of limbs and frustration. Which led to plan C, try to destroy the window. It was a bit trickier, since they couldn't make too much noise, but the fire place had tools and Dean set to work trying to dismantle the damn thing while Sammy got the dogs to bark to cover up the noise. They didn't get far, he just didn't have the right tools, but even with the sill half torn up, Sammy still couldn't get out.

Dean dropped the fire poker and leaned against the wall, trying to fight the urge to scream. He wasn't sure what else he could try. He didn't know how to break a witch's magic and that had to be the only thing keeping Sammy here. There was always a loop hole, always some fuckin' way out, something that made the odds even remotely even, but for the life of him he couldn't think of one that would help them now. Dad hated witches, and while Dean would never suggest his father avoided a hunt, he also made damn sure never to have Dean or Sammy around when he went after one. They had barely even talked about them. And that stupid fuckin' book Lecter had given him – and god but the bastard must have been smug about that one – it only talked about their history. About how they came in families over there in Europe. And did things like protect the crops and only _occasionally_ murder a man for their own benefit. None of that was going to help him now.

Sammy had apparently cried all he could cry because he was left with only sniffles. "I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered, like it was his fuckin' fault or something.

Dean grabbed him with his good arm and yanked him in close, tucking him under his chin the way he had since Sammy was a baby. "Not your fault," he grunted. He wanted to add that it was going to be okay, that everything was going to be fine, but it was a fuckin' lie and it sounded way too much like what Graham kept muttering even when he was glassy eye and twitching from whatever it was Lecter had done to him.

And that bastard wanted to do the same thing to Sammy.

No way. No fucking way.

Dean looked around the room, frantic for some kind of answer, even just something to defend themselves with. He wasn't going down without a fight, and Lecter would have to go over his dead body to get at Sammy.


	28. Chapter 28

"If you continue to indulge Dean's destructive behavior, it will be Sam that suffers for it."

Hannibal still had his back to Will, his eyes focused on where the boys had left. They were out of sight now, but still the focus of all of their attention.

Hannibal had capitulated on letting the boys leave the table but Will had the feeling it was only because he found squabbling about it in public too gauche. Clearly, Hannibal still thought it was imprudent. Possibly even a dangerously foolish idea. And one that was apparently infuriating.

It was a calm type of fury. The kind that showed itself more in the lack of motion and the absence of feeling in a tone of voice. As if a man was a vessel and there was only enough room in him for one thing at a time – either the anger or everything else. He didn't clench his fists. There wasn't a line of tension across his shoulders. There was just an absolute stillness to him as if he had stopped being human.

Will shifted restlessly, that fluttering, fight or flight, double time beating of his heart feeling was back, leaving him twitchy and feeling wrong-footed the way sleep deprivation mixed with an overdose of caffeine left him. Was this the first time Will had seen Hannibal mad? That seemed odd. Like Will had been missing some kind of basic cue all along and was only now realizing it. Hannibal's voice was cool and calm and as detached as if he were speaking to a patient. That made it easier to argue with him. To be angry back.

And suddenly, Will needed an argument. He needed to be angry. For some reason, it seemed desperately imperative that he fight this fight right here and now. Or else he might fall apart or disappear or sink beneath the surface of something that threatened to swallow him whole and wipe out all possibility of ever feeling again.

"You're forgetting that they are both little boys." It came out even sharper than Will had intended and for a moment he floundered at his own vehemence. The waves of dizziness were giving him a headache now, one he could feel growing at the base of his skull. He had hoped a little good food would have cleared the fog out of his brain, but he felt even worse. Not nauseous, thankfully, but like time and he were not in agreement. Even just reaching out one hand to steady himself on the table felt peculiarly unsettling. As if he were moving far slower than the rest of the world and it was rushing by him. Or as if it was he who was out of step with the world, like he was moving far too fast, in a jerking, fumbling fashion that made him want to cling to the side of something and try not to fall of the face of the Earth. Both conflicting sensations seemed to exist at exactly the same time and it was so difficult to focus on anything other than contemplating the odd impression of both falling and floating away.

"Youth will not protect them from the realities of this world," Hannibal told him, his voice one of the few clear things in the world at this moment. "You of all people should know that."

"I do," Will snapped back. "And that's exactly my point. The longer I can protect them from this, the better!"

"To what end? What purpose could that possible have, other than to leave them vulnerable when that willful blind self-indulgent pandering ignorance is not enough?"

Will focused on Hannibal's face, using it as his fix point to keep himself on his feet even if everything else was a bit hazy and melted feeling. "They're not ignorant and that's the problem. They should be. They shouldn't have to – "

"But they do," Hannibal interrupted and it perhaps the first time Will had heard him raise his voice in anger. In all of their debates, in every argument either with him or with someone else on the team, Hannibal had always managed to maintain the same tightly controlled presentation that might be harsh or commanding – but was never violent. "They do know and they will continue to know and there will be no way to protect them if you are too afraid to do what is necessary!"

"I did do what was necessary!" Will shouted back. Because, God, he had. Hannibal had held a man down while Will hacked at his neck, tearing through strips of flesh until there was nothing left. Every time he thought about it, the world shifted slightly, sliding around underneath him like a car on a patch of ice. It made his stomach drop each time and he had to close his eyes and pull himself back away from that ledge. When he had shot Hobbs, the minutes and days and weeks afterwards had been…difficult…as his mind went over and over again every detail, every sensation and every other possibility. Now – now he found it hard to focus on anything. He had killed a man in his front yard. It had been a slow, difficult process. Visceral. Surely more of that should be at the forefront of his mind.

But it was hard to think of anything specific when his body felt like it was in overdrive flight response. The adrenaline was back, his heart beating far too fast and his fingers tingling with the need to grab the boys, his legs itching with the impulse to run. Any calm he might have felt seemed to disappear in the shock of having Hannibal lose his temper. He wanted out of this room, away from this all. He wanted to pack the boys and his dogs and his guns into the car and drive anywhere but here.

He suddenly understood their father – on a deep personal level.

But Hannibal was the closest thing to a real partner Will had had since he left the police. He was likely the best chance Will had at a personal connection. And he was the only one of them who knew what the hell was really going on. Will couldn't take off and leave him. He needed him. And he shouldn't want to leave.

He shouldn't. There shouldn't be any place he felt safer.

"You didn't tell me," Will accused. He forced his own voice back down to a respectable volume, which only made it easier to make his tone as harsh and cold as he could manage. He didn't like being kept in the dark about things. It smacked too much of people talking about him behind his back. And while he knew he should be nothing but grateful that Hannibal had been there, had known what to do – and he was – part of him needed a reason to be angry with him right now. Needed that anger to get his mind to focus and pay attention and stop drifting comfortably away.

And suddenly, Hannibal shifted gears on him. Just as Will was working himself up to a nice, safe rage, Hannibal's shoulders relaxed and his face smoothed out. "And you would have done what?" Hannibal challenged him, his accent thicker than usual. "Believed me?" He smiled with clear amusement. "My dear Will, you would have done anything but, I suspect." He shrugged, as if their earlier argument was completely forgotten. "Nor would I have blamed you. After all, it would be beyond the scope of possibility and hence impossible to even consider. You, yourself, saw the crime scenes. If even your lovely mind could not make the jump from impossible to improbable, how on earth was I to convince you?"

"Consider me convinced." Will frowned, not quite as ready and willing to let go of his own anger. He wasn't sure what would be left if he did. He was afraid to find out.

Hannibal stepped closer. "I had hoped to one day to share this knowledge with you, but not quite so suddenly."

"You knew? All this time? You knew what was out there was real and that it was coming for the boys?"

Hannibal shook his head, firmly but not hastily. "I knew it was possible. Theoretical. It is hardly common, however, or else the world would be overrun. Such things are rare, and the idea that the boys' father had managed to hunt down an entire nest was still highly unlikely. The probability that at some point the family was touched by such things, yes, I had good reason to believe as much. That was why I pushed so hard for you to take responsibility for the boys. After all, who would be better suited to care for them than you and I."

Hannibal's smile grew. "Perhaps there is some good to be had from this. So much time would have been wasted trying to ease you into this new knowledge. And even then, you would never have believed me unless presented with undeniable proof. Or firsthand experience. And now you have had both. You have seen what the true monsters of the world are like and done what is required to stop them." He gestured for Will to sit, one hand lightly on his elbow. Sitting was probably a good idea, even though Will didn't much feel like being logical right now. But it was either sit or make a fuss.

Will was aware he was being mollified. Calmed. He wanted to be annoyed about it, but it was hard to hold on to something like that with Hannibal. He was so damnably in control at all times. It was like raging against a force of nature. You could do it, but there wasn't much point.

Will shook his head. "I'm not arguing that we shouldn't have killed it. Him. I'm not," but he wasn't sure what he was arguing. "But it's not – " and there was that slippery feeling in his mind when he tried to focus on exactly what it had been. What it did mean for him now. What it would mean for him for the rest of his life. "But how can you say – It wasn't a good thing. There was nothing good about that," he finally managed. Unless he was missing something. And maybe that was it. He wanted that to be it. There was so much that he hadn't understood before tonight. So much he still didn't understand. He looked at Hannibal now and tried to focus on what he was missing

Hannibal shook his head then crouched down in front of him. Both hands came to rest on Will's knees, warm and comforting, not suggestive but still such a clear a reminder of other things. "Yes, there was. More good than you will likely understand at this point, but you will. There is a natural balance to the world, Will. One that is so much more important once you understand the true powers at play. If you do not respect that and act accordingly, it will destroy you. There are even worse things out there than what you have seen tonight, and if you are not willing to fight such forces with equal fever then they will consume you without hesitation," Hannibal told him, his voice suddenly firm as his hands moved to hold just above Will's.

"My parents failed to comprehend the significance of that. They found the old ways...ill-fitting for the modern world and all of its sensibilities. For generations, we had protected the farmland and livestock and people of our village and we were only able to do so by doing what was necessary and by taking the power we needed to be able to do so. We never asked for more than was needed. A reasonable sacrifice, made so that we would have the power to ensure that the others would live.

"It was the weak ones, the ones who followed us, who had for so long been dependent on us and only us for their survival and protection from a world filled with monsters that could not understand that. Just because they suddenly found the price too high was no reason to shy away from such a clear order and structure of the world. There is power in life and there is power in death, to ignore one over the other is to do both a disservice. That thing," he concluded, "was unfit to continue the way it had. Taking back the life it had stolen was only as it should be. And why should we waste such a bounty when it can be put to good use?"

Will twisted his hands, not to pull away but to transfer their grip until it was him holding onto Hannibal's hands. He couldn't handle feeling trapped right now. And maybe Hannibal meant to be reassuring, but it wasn't what Will needed right now. He didn't know what he needed, exactly, other than to understand this. To make sense of it. To explain it in a way that would stop his head from feeling like it wasn't big enough to contain this. He wrapped his fingers loosely around Hannibal's wrists and pressing the tender skin of his abused palms against the soft underside there. He could feel the man's pulse like it was his own. He had to know. "What did we put to good use?"

Hannibal's smiled broadly. "Everything," he answered immediately and with such confidence and satisfaction that Will wanted to be just as pleased. That was the responsible thing to do, wasn't it? To make the most out of something. To improve it. But Will had never been a perfectionist like Hannibal was. Will was a man of broken things. And even in this victory, he felt like he had lost something. What Hannibal clearly saw as a thing of beauty left Will feeling terrifyingly lost.

He was missing something here. That was one thing Dean had right.

Maybe Hannibal saw that hesitation on his face. Or maybe he simply understood that someone like Will couldn't take such a simplification on faith alone. He raised Will's hands to his mouth and kissed across his knuckles as tenderly as if they were celebrating an anniversary and not scrapping by at survival. "It is a difficult thing for someone on the outside to understand. The world is much more vicious and complicated when you see underneath. When you see how power in this world truly works. There are things at play that are like forces of nature – they will do what it is in their nature to do. Those things out there, they are very much of that ilk. Mindless beasts, more often than not. But there are also actors who can control the ebb and flow of such forces. But to do so, to be one of those powerful actors, you must have access to that power. You must take it for your own. To do anything less than that is folly. You must embrace it without hesitation or limitation. It is not enough to kill the beast, you must conquer it, consume it and make its strength your own. I have given you that gift tonight, from the bounty that our hands have provided for us."

A bounty which must be respected – with a respect that demanded nothing short of everything you were. A price that the rest of the world balked at. Could not understand. Condemned and persecuted and drove out until families quietly set aside those old ways as if they had never been. A responsibility that Hannibal's parents had failed to maintain and who had suffered the price for it. A price that had cost Hannibal his sister and also some part of himself that he would never get back.

Hunters in the night and only blood between you and the thing that would kill you. Blood you must accept. Willingly.

Will stared at him. Forced himself to keep and hold that eye contact. He didn't have a choice. He had to know.

"What did you do?"

Hannibal smiled back pleasantly. "I took a slab of flesh from each of them. The one you killed for me, and the one I killed for you. It is not exactly traditional," he added, his shoulders shifting in the smallest of shrugs. "Normally, you would consume your own kill, take your own power, with your own hands, but I thought this much more appropriate." Hannibal kept their hands together, even when Will's went limp, and ran his thumb across the inflamed skin that he had cut open just the other night. "I wanted to share this with you. To have a piece of my power in you and a piece of yours in me. It is perhaps the closest we can come to being family, my dear Will. And it has been a long time since I had someone I could share such a thing with. But I knew early on in our acquaintance that you were someone I could build that kind of connection with. You have such a wonderful sensitivity to the truth of this world. The vibrations beneath the mundane and the everyday violence that characterizes it. Such an awareness was bound to draw attention eventually. You are fortunate that it was I and not something more sinister. You want to hunt the monsters, do you not? I will help you do that, Will. I will help you become strong enough that they cannot touch you. That is my gift to you, Will. Power. And truth."

It was like seeing the world through a key hole. Or maybe that was just his vision tunneling and threatening to snuff out on him all together. Flesh and power, family and truth. Will tilted backwards in his chair, not certain if he was trying to pull away or falling into that darkness. Either way, Hannibal's gripe tightened, firm and uncompromising. He never broke eye contact. Never hesitated. Never flinched. Even as he explained that he had killed their enemies, cut them up and eaten them one bite at a time. Or rather, they had. Killed them and eaten them, that was. Will supposed he was absolved of mutilating the bodies or preparing the meat, but that was a shallow comfort. His mind skittered away from the thought. Skittered away from everything. Shut down or overloaded or something he couldn't explain much less trust. Because if this was the truth – if this what it had always been – then how could he trust anything his brain told him?

Visions of blood and a horned monster in the dark were memories that had never left him, but rather had been safety contained and swept into that part of his brain that was categorized as abnormal but not necessarily a danger to himself or anyone else. He was rethinking that even as he questioned his own ability to think anything. Maybe he should ask Sammy what he thought. What he saw. Because he was starting to think maybe Sam had a better idea than he did.

"You fed it to the boys."

Will wasn't sure if that was the number one priority, but it was the thing pressing on him like a weight. Dean and Sam. Always Dean and Sam now. How did their father stand it?

"Yes," Hannibal agreed. "I have every desire to keep Sam here with us. You have seen him, Will. He is special, far more than his relatives likely realize. And far more at risk. He has been touched by something and it has left its mark. I do hate to see a waste. And you are fond of him, are you not?" Hannibal smiled warmly.

Was there a right answer to that question? It wasn't like he needed to give one. They both knew Will was willing to go to great lengths for the boys. They'd known it since day one – and maybe that was the point.

"Why?" he asked. Finally. That comfortable fuzz in his head making it possible to focus on what really mattered. Later, there would be time for fallout. Right now – right now he needed the truth Hannibal claimed to have. He needed to understand. And here Hannibal was for the first time being absolutely honest with him. It was startling to realize this _was_ the first time.

"You will need to be more specific, my dear."

A bit of a high demand, but Will could compartmentalize. "Why the flesh?"

Hannibal made a pleasant, pleased, humming noise. "An excellent question. Though one I suspect you already can guess at. It shouldn't take much for you to understand. You just need someone to guide you in the right direction. Why the flesh? Because it matters. When all else is stripped away, when this world is truly laid bare, what has a man other than his flesh and soul? And since latter is just out of reach, one must make do with the former. Though I will say a willing sacrifice _is_ more effective than one taken by force, it is very difficult these days to find such a supply." His tone was almost jovial. Relieved. And why shouldn't he be? How long had he waited to tell Will this? He said he had thought of this since the beginning. It certainly placed each interaction they had ever had under a new light – from their early arguments to the sex.

"Power, Will. The flesh gives us power. That is what you wanted to know, is it not? That is why. You saw what those things are and you saw how I stopped them. Stopped them from hurting you or the boys. There is only one way to do that, and that is to make yourself more powerful than they are. Those things never should have dared to step within my territory. And I can guarantee you, from this point forward, they _will_ know better. I do what is necessary, Will. What must be done. And you cannot achieve that through abstinence. From restraint."

"You've done this before." Hannibal didn't answer but Will didn't need him to, did he? "But – but this time was different. Special."

That _fond_ look was back. Will had grown accustom to it so quickly over the last few days. Had been looking for its rare appearance over the last few weeks. To have it so freely given now –

"Of course it was, and not just because I had you to share it with. It _is_ rare to have such a bounty. Power can never be created or destroyed. And supernatural creatures like the ones we killed tonight are significantly more powerful than the average human. I could not stand to see it wasted. It is a shame Sam is being difficult on the matter, but I suppose one must learn to have modest ambitions and to be grateful. There will be plenty of time to provide something more modest for Sam."

"Modest," Will repeated weakly. That sounded wonderful. Not at all like a description for the eating of human flesh. He hoped.

"You want him to be safe, don't you?" Hannibal demanded. "You and I cannot always be there to protect him. If you care about him as much as you believe you do, then you have to be able to understand this."

Will shook his head, but didn't argue. What could he argue? No, he didn't care? No, he thought what almost happened tonight would have been a better fate for the boys than what Hannibal had done? Maybe something was wrong with him. Dean seemed to think so. Maybe something in his brain finally broke, pushed just a little too far. He knew Hannibal was wrong. _Knew_ it. And yet – he couldn't argue against it. But to not refute it _was_ to be complacent. To participate. To give consent….

"Sammy's scared." That seemed important. A good argument even. It was another thing that wasn't right. Something Will knew for sure.

Hannibal sighed. "Unfortunate, I agree. But he is sensitive to influence. He has yet to build up the barriers you have against the outside world. He needs order and control – something he will not get as long as you continue to indulge his brother and allow Dean's own neurosis to run rampant. I am sorry Will, I know you want to help the boy and I could stand behind that up until a certain point, but I absolutely must draw the line when it is Sam's wellbeing that will suffer because of it. You can understand that, can you not?"

"But Dean – "

"Is not Sam or you. He never will be. You have to accept that. Trying to force him into something he will not and cannot become will only hurt him and others. I will not allow it." Hannibal shook his head in regret. "He is far too much like his father to understand people like us."

Will started to argue, was ready to deny it all passionately. He felt that anger inside him but it was like feeling warmth muted through several layers of fabric. He couldn't grip it tightly and it seemed to slip from him. Dean was troubled. There was no denying that. And hadn't Will been the first one to argue that he wasn't fit to care for the boys or to deal with the kind of trauma they had? Hannibal had been the only who had believed he could, and if Hannibal didn't believe that any more, could Will? He knew his judgment was questionable. There were a million reasons why and he felt like he was doing nothing but drowning in them now. Nothing felt right. How would Will know what the best option was if everything made him want to run and hide?

"Dean deserves better." That was one thing he knew for sure.

But Hannibal shook his head. "No one deserves anything, Will. That is the truth of the world. There is only what can and cannot be. And what can be done. Dean has made it clear that he cannot accept the truth of their situation or what needs to be done to protect Sam. You cannot will that to change. You simple have to accept it and do what is necessary. Like I have."

"My dear Will," Hannibal exclaimed softly, fondly. "I do not think you understand the effort and the risk I have taken in drawing you in to my side. We are bound now, you and I, permanently." He held up their hands, turning them so he could kiss the broken skin on Will's. "That inescapable human urge to be understood, I suppose," he added in tone that made it clear how little he thought of being subject to such a thing. "But I will not allow anything to threaten that. Our fates are now tied together. I will make you stronger than you can fully understand right now. You have only to follow where I lead. We are committed now. Mind, body and soul. You gave your consent. I have you now."

And god help him, but he had. He'd barely even questioned it. Surely – _surely_ – some part of him must have been able to see, to sense, to feel what he was getting himself into. Like Dean had said, he could _see_ even if he was too stupid to understand. Despite that, he had still followed. Had given his consent. Had wanted what Hannibal had offered him. Understanding. Acceptance. Control.

"I don't think that counts as informed consent," he muttered.

Hannibal laughed. "It does. Not that it would matter in the end, but it does." He reached up suddenly to cup Will's face, his own only inches away, with a singular focus. "My dear Will. You must understand. I wanted this for you. I wanted to share this with you. You will never again be one of those blind creatures that wander the face of this Earth just waiting to be made a meal out of by something stronger. You will be the thing to be feared and honored. That is how it should be. I do so hate to see a thing wasted, and certainly not something as fascinating and beautiful as you."

Will's ability to focus was limited to two things. The face in front of him that stared as if he really could see Will's soul –whimsical description that was now actually a chilling possibility – and the burning, throbbing, pulsing heat and pain in his palms. The pain was as fresh as when Hannibal had cut them open and lovely rubbed salt into the wound.

These things had meaning. Will had known that, he had just thought it had been more figurative and bit less supernatural. It was real. It was all real. It always had been, figuratively or supernaturally. And he had sealed himself – mind, body and soul – to what was before him.

"At what cost?" he asked. Finally. Too late. And in no more than a whisper. He was afraid he already knew. Afraid Dean was right. But he had to ask. Has to do that at least.

Hannibal gripped him tightly, holding Will's head in place. "Nothing worth mourning."

"What cost?" Will repeated and this time his voice was firm and level and calm. He knew already. And somehow that knowledge made it possible to be detached. Or maybe it just made detachment the only option left.

Hannibal studied him for a moment before leaning back. The distance was only slight and he never let up his grip on Will. "Power is in the blood and the sacrifice. Our village used to give us willing ones. It was the natural order of the world and kept everything simple. When they refused – when my previous family acquiesced – we lost everything. All of our power was gone, and with it any ability to stop the fouler things of the night from doing whatever they pleased. _I took that power back_. The world has little need for one or two or three worthless, crude, blind, sacks of flesh. Whereas I have a purpose and a much more fitting use for them."

"People," Will clarified in helpless, stubborn fascination. "People, not monsters."

"You will find that there is little difference in the end. Not to people like you and I. There is certainly no point in being squeamish about it now."

What did one say in response to that? Will thought, perhaps a bit hysterically. Maybe it was left over shock from earlier. Maybe it was the long expected onset of full insanity. Hannibal had been killing people for much longer than this. Years possibly. And eating them. That was part of the ritual, after all. No wonder he was so particular about what he ate if he truly believed it would give him power over the world. Not just believed, but knew it did. What temptation would it be if it did? If it truly did give a man the ability to stop monsters in their tracks?

Dean was right.

Hannibal had saved them from the monsters because he was one.

They were alive because of Hannibal and because of Hannibal other were dead.

Hannibal smiled at him. "You do see, Will. You always have. You were always meant to. To see and to understand. Even now it does not horrify you, does it?"

Will scowled and tried to pull back as if it burned. Hannibal didn't let him.

"You aren't," he continued. "Not truly. You object to the deaths. Perhaps abhor the killing. But you also understand the logic, do you now? You are asking yourself even now whose life is worth more, the pig at slaughter or the boys? We both know what you will choose. What you have chosen. And Will – dear, lovely, brilliant Will, other than a moment's disgust, the knowledge that you have eaten the dead has barely phased you. It may be an offense against the dignity of the dead to you – and perhaps a cruel thing not have told you beforehand – but the act itself, outside of those social repercussions that you are so careful to be aware of, the act itself holds no abhorrence for you. Does it, my Will?"

It didn't. The dead were dead and beyond all help. It was the living that horrified and terrorized him.

Hannibal kissed him, a brief forceful press of lips, pulling them together and pushing against one another as if Hannibal could force them into the same space. "I knew. I saw you and I knew. My perfect Will. We will complement each other beautifully. You will see. We are the same. I will show you. Everything. You and Sammy. He needs us, Will. He is powerful, even now, and he will need us to show him how to survive. I will keep both of you safe. Do you understand, Will?" Hannibal asked. He shook Will gently, even though his hold was firm. "It is important that you understand the lengths I am willing to go to to ensure that I keep you, Will. And Sammy, as well. It is best that we all understand that. Especially you, Dean."

_Dean_.

Will yanked back hard. Hannibal maintained his grip on Will's skull just long enough to demonstrate that he could before transferring his hold so that one hand was on Will's shoulder, keeping him in his seat. The other rested gently on top of his head. He didn't try to stop Will from looking. He even stepped to the side so give him a clear view of the kitchen door.

The one Dean was standing in. Holding Will's gun in both hands. The one Will had foolishly, carelessly, unforgivably, dropped on a side table when they had returned to the house. It had been useless against vampires but that didn't make it any less dangerous in the hands of a child. One who had wanted nothing more since he first arrived than to be armed.

And now he was point it at Hannibal.


	29. Chapter 29

Graham's eyes were wide and his face pale and sweaty. He looked like shit and Dean wondered if he realized it. If he knew he looked freaked the fuck out. Probably not. He'd been sitting there as meek and mild as a lamb the whole time Lecter had pawed at him and rambled on about killing people and why the fuck he thought that was okay. It wasn't. If beating the monsters meant you had to become one of them, then it still wasn't fucking right. Dean got that. And he sure as hell hoped Graham did too. He thought he did. He wanted him to.

Graham had left the gun sitting on a table next to his favorite arm chair. Tossed down there the same way Dad would sometimes drop his gear after a long hard hunt. But Dad knew that Dean and Sam would never, ever touch them without permission or damn good reason.

This – this counted as damn good reason.

Lecter had been practically curled around poor fuckin' Graham like some freakin' b-movie vampire bat hovering over the sleeping chick. It had meant Dean had absolutely zero clearance for a shot. Anything that went through Lecter would have been bound to take out Graham too, and Dean wasn't quite ready to kill the poor fucker yet. Not when he was only in this mess because something like Lecter had dragged him into it.

But Dean had been working himself up to it. If he had to. He had Sammy to think of, and as much as he really didn't want to do anything that might risk Graham, he had also tried every damn thing he could to get the guy to pull his own ass out of the fire and he hadn't listened to Dean. Maybe couldn't at this point. Who knew just how far Lecter had crawled inside his mind. It was clear now that he was the one responsible for that freaky evil deer thing. That he was probably the reason Will always looked so sick. Hannibal had been able to make Will see shit and had probably been watching him and fucking with his head this whole time.

Everything was just so messed up and it was up to Dean to fix this and they were all so screwed because Dean was pretty damn sure he couldn't. He'd told Sammy to stay back, away from the door to the kitchen and ready to make a run for it if Dean could find them an opening. He didn't know if the brat would listen to him, but he had to trust that the kid would have enough sense to stay out of the kitchen and in the limited safety of the other room. Dean had to kill Lecter. That was the only way to get out of here. But he couldn't do that without maybe killing Graham too. And Dean had never killed a human before. He had never, ever, even thought he might have to.

And even though his arms had started to shake and he had been risking their lives every moment he had hesitated, Dean still couldn't quite bring himself to fire. You never point a gun at something you weren't ready to kill. And he was pointing it at both of them. Lecter's wide open vulnerable back – and Will Fucking Graham.

He'd had his one chance and he had fucking blown it.

Lecter knew he was there. Had known for god knew how long. And he wasn't the least bit scared of Dean.

He proved that when he turned around, still holding on to Graham like he had his claws dug into the guy. Lecter's face was calm and impassive. His shoulder straight once he stood up. Not a hint of surprise to find Dean there with a gun. Not a hint of fear.

Which mean Dean really was dead. For sure this time. He'd known it. Known it was a damn good possibility as soon as he'd picked up the gun. But he had to do it. Had to try. And now he was dead.

"Hello, Dean."

Lecter's voice was as mild as summer day and it made Dean's stomach flip over.

"Dean," Graham keened. "What – what are you doing?"

"He is making his choice," Lecter answered before Dean could. "Just like his father. He intends to kill us, Will. His stunted ability to see or understand anything means he would rather murder us all than let someone like you or me help him."

Dean's hands were shaking visibly now and he had to deliberately concentrate on keeping them level. It took him a moment to figure out how to work words too. And how to gasp them out over the rushing noise in his own head. "You're not –" Human? Anything like Graham? Fuckin' sane? "Not helping. You're not helping. You're trying to hurt Sammy the same way you've fucked up Graham. At least those things out there kill people because they're evil and that's what they fuckin' do. You – you're supposed to be human. And not fucking eating people and putting curses on people and trapping them places and pretending it's to protect them. He's got Sammy trapped with some damn spell that makes it hurt when he tries to leave!"

Lecter tsked and shook his head. "You see, dear Will? He cannot even recognize that we are trying to keep the monsters away from his brother."

"You're the monster!" Dean screamed back. He stepped closer, still staying well out of arm's reach but wanting nothing more than to shoot this fucker.

Lecter ignored the implied threat, his attention still focused sole on Graham even as he pretended to talk to Dean. The man sighed dramatically, like this was all some fuckin' regrettable disagreement over tea. "Does that mean you are you going to kill me too?" he mused and hell if he didn't try to make it sound like he was the fuckin' martyr.

Fuck that shit. "Yes," Dean hissed back. "Yes, I fucking will. I will if you don't let Sammy go!" The hell he wouldn't. Dad had been teaching him for years now. He could do this. Even if it didn't work, it wouldn't be because Dean was too afraid to try.

Lecter shook his head. "And where should Sammy go?" he wondered. As if he were asking an empty room – not expecting any real answer, not caring what it might be.

He was playing Dean. Dean knew it. Damn Lecter had been doing that since day one. But Dean didn't know how to outmaneuver him to get out of it. He couldn't even come up with something witty and sarcastic to say back. He wished he could. He wished so bad that he was older and bigger like his dad and able to look this kind of thing in the eye and tell it to fuck off. But he wasn't and the words seemed to keep getting bottlenecked up in his throat until he felt like he might actually choke on them. "Away from you," he managed, determined at least not to blubber his way through this. Not to give the damn witch that satisfaction. "Anywhere that's fuckin' away from you."

"And into the arms of monsters," Lecter replied without missing a beat. And without even the slightest hint of irony, the bastard. "I cannot allow that, Dean," he proclaimed.

The words were physically heavy as if Dean could almost feel them setting down on his shoulders and slowly entangling all of him. Jesus fuck. Witches. Where did one even start with them? How the hell did you even try? Dean's hands were shaking bad now. His arms were well passed numb but at least his elbows were still up, even if he had to lock them to do it. He was breathing faster than he should be and he wasn't sure if that was just him freakin' the fuck out or if it was something the bastard was doing to him. Either way, it was going to throw off his aim. Assuming it didn't do something really awful like make him pass out.

Even Graham looked like he was starting to feel it too – that something in the room wasn't right. His eyes were still wide and his face feverish, but he'd finally stopped staring at Dean like Dean was the problem. He was turning, slowly, to stare up at Lecter. It didn't look easy to do and not just because of the way Lecter kept a firm grip on the spot where Graham's shoulder met his neck. Letcher had moved around behind him now, standing just passed the man's shoulder and firmly in his blind spot. It meant Graham had to twist himself around awkwardly just to catch a glimpse of him and even Dean could see the way Lecter's hand tightened when the man tried.

"Hannibal," Graham murmured and reached up to gently pat that vice-like grip as if he thought he could calm this beast.

That wasn't going to happen.

"I won't let you have Sammy," Dean told Lecter. He might not be able to mess with people's minds or make them feel words like they were things of power, but he meant it. Meant it with his whole body and soul and that had to count for something.

And damn that bastard if he didn't _smile_ back at Dean, as if Dean had done something precocious. Like a snake or something laughing at a mouse while it scrambled at the sides of a wall trying to escape. Lecter leaned down to put his mouth near Graham's ear, one hand still holding him firmly in place and the other carelessly combing through the man's sweaty hair. "Which leaves us no other option, don't you see, Will?" And it was like Dean no longer existed. As if this was just a conversation between the two of them. "I am afraid there is no happy ending here. And we have a duty to Sam. To protect him. Even from his brother's delusions and hysteria."

Graham tried to twist around to face him, but Lecter kept him firmly in place. Those same hands had broken a vampire's arm like it was a dry twig and now they had no trouble holding Graham right were Lecter wanted him. But for once Graham seemed to notice it. He reached up to grasp Lecter's arms, not fighting back all-out the way Dean would have but clearly pulling on them. "Hannibal," Graham repeated. "What are you saying?" His eyes darted back to Dean, and Dean waited for it. Waited for Graham to go on about how everything was okay and Dean should put away the gun and how everyone just needed to hug and make up or some bullshit. He waited for Graham to look at him the way he did when he thought Dean was going to do something reckless or insane or broken. But he didn't. He didn't once tell Dean to put the gun down. Instead his eyes went back up to Lecter, his body taunt trying to pull away even as he tried to twist around at the same time so he could get a closer look. "Hannibal, what are you doing?"

Lecter's hand moved to cup Will's jaw and tilted his face back towards Dean. He leaned down then until their cheeks were pressed together and practically crooned. "Look," he ordered Graham. " _Look_. Do you believe for a moment that the boy will not shoot? You know people's minds, Will. You can see into them. You have always been able to before now and that will only grow more powerful the longer we are together." Lecter paused at that, looking far too pleased at the idea and so damnably confident that it would happen. His gaze shifted back to Dean. His words were for Graham and Graham alone, but the way he stared, focused but without even the hint of recognition, said more than enough to Dean. "We all know how this will end. I am afraid you will have to make a choice after all, dear Will, Dean or Sam?"

And didn't Lecter sound so freakin' heartbroken about that one. From day one he'd had his sights on Sam. The only wonder was why it had taken him this long to make a move to get rid of Dean. What had he thought was going to happen? That Dean would just accept this? That he'd duck his head down at the first threat and keep his mouth shut? Or did he really at one point think he could talk Dean into thinking this was a good idea?

"There will be no backing away from this one," Lecter continued, his voice finally losing that damnable calm and refined tone and leaving behind something harsher and more guttural. "There will be no senseless," he jerked Will's head once "inane," shook it again, " _stupid_ notions of laying down your own life. As if wasting it on something so ridiculous would preserve anything of value. No, I am afraid Dean has backed us into this corner," Lecter soothed. "Despite my best efforts to warn him against such action – "

Dean's face flushed. This – this wasn't his fault! It wasn't! He knew that. And yet – it was almost as if even he was starting to believe it. Staring to believe whatever crazy ass thing Lecter said. Which should have terrified him, but maybe he was passed the point of being able to be more terrified. All he had left was pissed. "You threatened to fuckin' kill me, you mean!" he yelled back.

But Lecter just spoke over him. "He will shoot, Will. Even if we disarm him now, he will not stop until one or all of us are dead -"

Damn straight! But it was only going to be one of them and Dean was going to make sure he was dead, salted and _burned_.

" – and even then, there will be no rescue or refuge for whoever is left. Even if he shoots both of us and takes Sammy away from here, both of the boys will die. Horribly," he stressed. And it was like having someone shove needles under Dean's skin. He gritted his teeth to bear it and tried not to think about what could and would happen if something ever got ahold of little Sammy. How long it might take to die. What little of him there'd be left for their father to find.

Lecter was shaking his head, oh so tragic and sympathetic and already decided. "There is really no other choice you can make, my dear. And I cannot in good consciousness stand by and allow such a thing. The good of the many, outweighs the good of the one.

"Hannibal," Will tried.

"Are you going to give me the gun, Dean?" Lecter demanded.

Dean couldn't help it. He backed up a step. Lecter hadn't moved. Not yet. He hadn't done anything other than focus that mind-numbing attention back on Dean. But it was enough to have him wanting to abandon this shit crazy idea of fighting and go straight back to flight.

"Answer the question, Dean," Lecter demanded. He didn't yell it or growl or do any of those things monsters were supposed to do. In fact, he sounded a hell of a lot like a more fancy pants version of one of Dean's teachers. And if Dean did actually survive this, he was never ever going to be able to listen to that kind of shit again without wanting to claw his way out.

Dean wanted to look to Graham so bad, but it was as if his body had locked up entirely. He desperately wanted his dad. Wanted Dad to come bursting through the door, guns a-blazing, armed with silver and ash and whatever the fuck else he needed and with a plan in place. Hell, Dean would have settled for some of Graham's stupid police friends. They may be ineffective as shit, but maybe it would be enough to escape in one piece.

But there wasn't any help coming.

And Sammy was waiting just on the other side of the wall.

"No," Dean declared.

"A poor choice," Lecter informed him. He stepped clear of Graham's chair, moving to put himself between the two of them. He had finally released his grip on Graham's shoulder, but he didn't really need it, did he? He had all of them exactly where he wanted them. "I had hoped, Dean, that you might have enough sense to understand how drastically out classed you are. But some people cannot be taught, no matter how one tries."

"Hannibal," Graham tried again, too little too fuckin' late. "He's still just a child-"

"No, he is not," Lecter argued back. "He is a Hunter. Aren't you Dean?"

Lecter took one step forward, decreasing the space between them. But retreating wasn't an option for Dean no matter how much his hindbrain screamed for it. Sammy was back there. He couldn't risk Sam getting caught in the crossfire of this – whatever this was. And he didn't want his little baby brother to have to watch him get killed in whatever way it was that Lecter planned to kill him.

"Yes," Dean gasped out. "Yes. Yes. Damn straight." Because if there was one thing he was good for, it was that. He wouldn't let this bastard take that from him.

"And you are not going to stop, are you, Dean?"

"No. Fuck you. No."

"Hannibal-"

Lecter waved one hand. "I deeply regret this, Will-" _Bullshit!_ "-but this is how this will end. Dean is a Hunter. He has made his choice to live or die by that. Well, Dean? Now is your opportunity." Lecter stepped one more pace closer. "You will not have a clearer opportunity."

"Hannibal!" Graham's voice sounded panicked. Finally. Knowing Dean's luck, however, he was probably more worried about Lecter's well-being than figuring out the fucker was a grade-A monster.

Lecter ignored him too, his attention focused only on Dean now. "Well, Hunter?" he taunted.

Fuck it. Dean clenched his jaw, steadied his arms and tried.

And Lecter just stared at him. And then slowly smiled.

It was like the floor dropped out from under him. That sinking feeling in your stomach when the floor suddenly crumbles beneath your feet like the rotted out wood of an old porch. Or like the first time Dad was late from a hunt, seriously late, and Dean didn't know what he was going to do. Or like every time Dean managed to lose Sammy in a grocery store. Like that one time Dean was really, really sick and he kept thinking that Mom was still there, brushing the hair back from his face, only to wake-up again and remember she was gone.

Dean tried to fire. It was something he had done a million times before and should have been easy. But even though his whole body was focused on completing that one action – he couldn't.

He had his arms braced. He could feel the weight of the gun in his hands. And he would _swear_ his brain was telling his finger to pull the damn trigger – that he _was_ pulling it – but the rest of his brain was well aware that nothing was happening and that message had somehow gotten lost along the way from his head to his hand.

He wanted to scream. He could feel it strangling his lungs.

Damn Lecter. Damn that bastard to hell. He'd never been at all threatened by Dean. It didn't fucking matter that Dean _finally_ had a gun. The damn thing was useless if all Lecter had to do was look at him to trap him in the prison of his own body.

"Do you see, Will?" Lecter calmly asked. The smug bastard was happy Dean had tried to shoot him. Vindicated. And not at all ashamed of locking another person inside their own body. Of taking control of another human being and stripping them of even the most basic free will.

Lecter didn't turn to look at Graham and Dean couldn't even if he wanted to. But he could just barely see Graham slowly pushing himself up to his feet, looking like someone who'd just gotten over the flu, as he stood and trembled behind Lecter.

"What is this, Hannibal?" Graham demanded in a voice that was little more than a whisper. But it was the first time Dean had heard a little bit of the real man himself in it in a long time. Was this what it took to make Graham sit up and take notice of what was happening to him? Lecter had been twisting him around his finger all this time and the asshole waits until Dean is a deadman to finally wake the fuck up!

"Do you see, Will?" Lecter repeated, seemingly not at all perturbed by Will's feeble attempts to push back.

Dean had a better view of Graham now, could see him just over Lecter's shoulder. For a moment, Dean had something else to look at than the terrifying face of the monster in front of him. Graham's eyes met his and Dean had to wonder if he looked as fucking freaked the fucked out as he was? Graham looked way too calm. Almost bored. Or tired. Or just generally done with everything and Dean managed to find yet one more layer of fear and the feeling of being so terribly alone and vulnerable.

It was awful. The worst he'd ever felt since the day Mom had died. But that probably made sense. This was going to be the day he died. And maybe the day Sammy died. That had to count as an all time worst day ever.

"Do you – "

"I see!" Graham hurried to agree with Lecter.

"Good," Lecter proclaimed. "For every action, there must be an equal response. There must be a balance. An order to the world. Each choice has repercussions, Dean. Each action. You have made your choice. _Made_ your action. Or tried to, at least. It is only fitting that you see it through, don't you think?"

It felt like nails scrapping up his back, like really nails not fingernails, scrapping deep furrows into his spine. But that wasn't magic. Dean could feel the difference. Reactions, like Lecter has said. The spasming pain was his body's feeble attempt to fight back against what Lecter was doing to him. It wasn't the magic that made it burn like his muscles were tearing. The magic didn't hurt at all. It was Dean's desperate attempt to get control back that made him want to cry it hurt so bad. But he had to get back control because it sure as hell wasn't Dean moving his body now. He willed his arms straight and steady. He _felt_ them as straight and stiff. Even as he watched and knew they were folding up on him. The gun now pointed uselessly over Lecter's head. And still they moved. The gun was now pointed straight up at the ceiling.

The gun now pointed straight at Dean's face.

He was crying now.

Dean could realize that, even as his body felt like it was seizuring it was trying so hard to stop what was happening and couldn't. The angle was awkward for his wrists. What an odd thing to realize. He had never seen anything so frightening as the view down a gun from this angle.

"Hannibal!"

Graham's voice was loud and sharp like a cracking boom. Commanding. With only a hint of something that might have been fear, might have been anger, might have ben nothing more than annoyance for all Dean knew. But it was as _real_ and physical a blow as Lecter's had been.

Dean felt it like a blow across his chest. It forced out a lungful of air and a whimper that felt out of place and lost and very human and alone.

"Will," Lecter replied slowly, "It would be best for you to follow my guidance at this time."

"Until just exactly when, Hannibal?"

"We have already discussed this," Lecter argued back, finally sounding frustrated. "I am afraid we are out of options at this point"

"Are we?" Graham answered quietly.

Lecter huffed impatiently and tilted his head to the side as if he couldn't quite figure out why Graham was making such a fuss over killing someone. His eyes never left Dean, his focus still pressing physically on him even as his attention shifted. "My dear Will," the man sighed. "Dean has long been out of any viable options. And you, my dear, have already made your choice, have you not? By blood and consent. Where I go, you will follow."

"I never agreed to this."

"You accepted me," Lecter shot back sharply. "As I have accepted you. Body and soul. That cannot be changed or undone now. You no longer have that option. You may reassure yourself with that if you wish. I am comfortable taking responsibility for this myself. You need not burden yourself with it if you do not wish.

"Hannibal, he's a child – " Graham cut off, scowling in frustration before switching tracks immediately. It wasn't like Lecter was going to feel any guilt at killing a kid. He'd already made that pretty damn clear. "He's not even a threat!" Graham argued instead. "Is he? Just try to tell me otherwise. Tell me you don't have the ability to control this any way you wish. I do know you. I see you now. You are far too careful for anything else. You never would have let this get to this point unless you knew you held control."

Lecter frowned, but nodded once.

"Don't do this, Hannibal," Graham tried and Dean wanted to scream at him. Did he think begging would work? Did he think that was going to stop this? But Lecter still didn't finish it and seemed content to let Graham have his say. "Don't make this choice," Graham told him. "Don't force this. Let it go. For once, just let it go. We – we can work out the rest."

Lecter hesitated. He turned ever so slightly, mostly in the hips, his focus still on Dean. But his eyes drifted slowly over to Graham. It wasn't enough to break Dean free. His body was still trembling so bad he didn't know how he was on his feet. The gun was still pointed at him. But breathing was just a little bit easier. Which meant he was back to sobbing in great breaths, choking on them around the tears and snot.

Lecter smiled at him. "I have not doubt on that matter, Will. I already own you. It is a matter of maintaining my authority over the rest of my territory. It is best that you come to understand that now."

"Like their Ma'am out there?" Graham asked. Dean didn't know what the fuck he was talking about, but based on the way he gestured out front, he had a feeling it had something to do with the two dead bloodsuckers. Maybe he was finally seeing the connections between those monsters and the one in front of them.

Lecter certainly did not seem to appreciate the comparison based on the way he scowled suddenly. Good. The bastard should be having a bad time with this somehow. "I have little use for such a crude arrangement. One would hope you would be able to understand that I would not have invested so much time and effort for something as base as that. We are partners in this, Will, do not doubt that. I would see you at your best. But at the moment, you are still a fledgling and can hardly be expected to appreciate the necessity of certain actions. Given time, you will. And we will have plenty of time. Years. Decades. More if all goes well. By then this will be nothing more than an unfortunate bit of unpleasantness. Even little Sammy will come to see it that way."

Graham shook his head slowly. "No."

But Lecter wasn't paying attention. He kept talking, but he was already shifting his focus back to Dean. "Yes. You already have. You simply do not realize it yet. You have killed for this, Will. And you will again. It is a part of you now."

"I will not risk having this in my house," Lecter announced, clearly meaning Dean by the look on his face. And this was it. Lecter was done talking. That feeling of suffocating was back, hovering just on the edge of too much. Something was wrong with the muscles in Dean's back. The constant spasming felt like it had torn something free back there and it hurt. Everything was starting to hurt. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to fail Sammy and Dad and hell, not even stupid Mr. Graham, but he wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. It literally felt like his body was going to rip itself apart, pushing and pulling in two very different directions – between survival and what Lecter willed.

Dean whimpered and looked away from the gun. He didn't want that to be the last thing he saw. He wanted it to be a hell of a lot of things other than that, but he was going to have to settle for Graham's shabby kitchen, the smug look on Lecter's face and the distant calm one on Will's.

"Don't –" Dean managed to choke out but he couldn't manage anything more. He wanted to say don't touch Sammy.

He wanted that to be his last words.


	30. Chapter 30

These were the things that Will understood.

_Hannibal was a witch._

Dean had called him one, and based on what the man himself had said about rituals to take power, and how they should use that power, and what it meant for their place in the world, all seemed to confirm that idea.

_Will had beheaded and eaten a vampire._

Or what everyone else seemed content to call a vampire. A monster of some kind, one that had laughed about torturing and killing small children.

_Will did not regret beheading and eating a vampire._

Not nearly as much as he should. It had been horribly messy, and he worried his imagination would build far worse out of it in the weeks to come, and it certainly did not seem _sanitary_ , but Hannibal was right, it didn't horrify him. It was a fact. A thing in the past that had already been done and there was little use in dwelling on it. The meaning behind it, the motivations, the implications, those might bear reviewing in detail; but the act was finite and it was in and of itself without meaning.

_Dean was never going to stop._

He was never going to cease to be Sammy's big brother. He was never going to bend or look the other way or compromise when it came to Sam. He might not have the cold, detached focus his father had shown, but he had the willingness. The conviction. He'd kill for it, without remorse. The moment Hannibal gave him an opening, a chance, no matter how slim, the boy would go for the kill. It was, quite literally, self-defense. It didn't matter than Dean was a child or that he saw Hannibal as a danger to Sam. The truth was, even if Hannibal had nothing but the best of intentions towards Sam, Dean would still do everything he could to kill Hannibal. And Dean was a very capable young man. He'd find a way.

_They had all made their choices._

And they would all have to live with them. Or not.

That was what Will understood.

He understood why Dean had to fight the way he did. He understood why Sam was frightened. He understood why Hannibal looked at the world around him and took what he needed to remake as he saw fit. Will even understood now why he had never been able to walk away from Hannibal. This wasn't the deep abyss of an unhinged mind, the way all of the killers he had tracked before were. Hannibal was something new and wonderful and transcendent.

And he called Will kindred. Bound them together so that even now Will could feel the burning radiating heat from the wounds in his hands and the feeling of Hannibal's remarkable will and self-control pushing on his own awareness. Will could _feel_ it like a weight across his shoulders or like warm moist breath on the back of his neck. It felt _familiar_.

It wasn't nearly as frightening as it should be. Even when he knew this was only the beginning. That it would only grow stronger.

He was surprisingly calm about everything.

There was a certain comfort in knowing that you had no more choices left to you.

The steak knife was smaller than his hunting knife, the handle slick and difficult to hold, but the tip sharp and narrow. He had to brace the pommel against the bottom of his palm as he thrust upward, into the soft tissue just under the ribs and along the side. As deep as he could.

There was a wheezing grunt. Then Hannibal's hand lifted slowly and wrapped around Will's on the knife. But he didn't pull. Probably best not to risk the blood loss taking it out. Will couldn't help himself, however, from stepping in closer and grabbing a hold of Hannibal's torso on the other side and making sure he stayed in place.

"Ah," Hannibal murmured gently.

Will pressed his face into the man's back. He could feel very warm, very fresh, blood flowing rather quickly over his fingers, across the back of his hand and dripping down his wrist. It was nothing like killing those animals. It was very much killing a real human being. And Will didn't want to see it.

He also didn't want to see Dean blow his brains out if it ended up that Hannibal was still capable of not only surviving this but fighting back. So burying his face in Hannibal's back seemed like a good idea all around.

But the shot never rang out. There was only the sound of Dean's frantic gasping and Hannibal's much softer strained inhales.

Will counted silently. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three. How long could they stand there in this tableau? How long before the pressure grew too great? Will may have surprised Hannibal, but the man was physically stronger and far more determined than Will.

What he hadn't anticipated was Hannibal leaning back into him. There was a moment of heart thumbing fear as he tried to figure out if this was some advanced form of attack designed to knock him down. But other than needing to shift his feet slightly to take more of the man's weight, nothing else happened.

So Will held on. One hand in a death grip on the knife, the other spread across Hannibal's ribs on the other side. He held Hannibal in his arms and kept the two of them on their feet. He was distantly aware of his own ache deep in his chest. He was distinctly aware of Hannibal's hands now covering both of his. The one on the knife tight enough to bruise. The other splayed out over his own, fingers sliding gently to thread in between his.

"Beautiful," Hannibal whispered, "and unexpected as always, dear Will."

"No choice," Will muttered back, forcing the words passed the tightness in his own chest.

Hannibal's next inhale was sharper, more strained and both of them shook with it. They were trembling, struggling to stay upright.

"Let go of Dean," Will ordered.

Hannibal tried to say something, but his chest hiccupped in the attempt and in the end it was more of a sigh. He curled his fingers around Will's on the knife and pulled his hand away slowly but steadily. He left the knife in place, likely the only thing keeping him alive right now and from bleeding out. Hannibal fisted his hand around Will's curling them together before slowly, shakily, raising their joined hands to his lips.

Will's attention was focused on the feeling of Hannibal's blood between their fingers and the warmth of Hannibal's breath as he held them pressed against his mouth. Will didn't miss, however, the sound of a gun dropping suddenly and sharply to the ground. There was a softer thump as Dean collapsed and the sound of Sammy running into the room finally.

Will would have to trust the boys to take care of each other.

It was becoming increasingly hard to stand.

Hannibal slumped further, his feet trying to shift under him to keep him up and from slipping on the small pool of blood that had run off onto the linoleum. They both fell hard, knocking chairs out of their way and just barely missing braining themselves on the table. One of them had enough sense to control the fall so they went down on the side that didn't have the knife sticking out of Hannibal. Will gasped at the sudden flair of pain in his side, now making itself insistently known and not just hovering at the back of his mind. He could feel the muscle pull and tear and rupture with a burning wet heat that was far too real.

Hannibal twisted until he was on his back, Will curled up alongside him as if that would make the pain stop. Hannibal's free hand reached over, across their body and firmly pressed it against Will's side.

The blood bubbled up and over his hand but it steamed some of the flow.

"Oh," Will whispered. He had known, hadn't he? That he and Hannibal were forever more tied to one another. Tied in a way that went beyond all reason or reality. He hadn't known exactly what would happen if he tried to kill Hannibal. He hadn't been sure he even could. But maybe part of him had known it meant killing himself too. Every choice had its repercussions, after all.

Will had always known that getting inside a killer's head was going to be the thing to destroy him one day. He'd just never thought it would be quite this literal. But Hannibal had offered him everything he had ever wanted. To be understood and accepted. Encouraged even. Embraced. It was only fitting that the price for that would be too high.

He regretted not having had the chance to have it longer. To have been able to keep the illusion. Dean had been right. He hadn't seen. It was both a blessing and a failure. One that was going to cost him his life. One that was going to cost Hannibal his life.

"The boys – will be – alright," Will argued. He wasn't sure who he was arguing with any more, but he needed to hear the words out loud. Dean and Sam would be on their own now, out there in the dark with the monsters. There were still vampires that were hunting them, and neither Hannibal nor Will would be there to stop them. But Dean was clever. And their father loved them very much. Will understood him now and what drove a man like that to raise his son to be a soldier. He'd find the boys. Keep them safe. They just had to stay alive long enough on their own until then.

"Keep pressure," was Hannibal's only response.

* * *

Sammy had both arms around Dean's chest and was all but dragging him out the front door. There was something wrong with Dean's back in addition to his arm now. He couldn't stand up straight. Couldn't hold a gun. Sort of never wanted to again, to be honest. At least not now anyway. Even walking was difficult. And he couldn't stop seeing the freakishly serene look on Will's face when he stabbed Lecter in the back.

Don't get him wrong, Dean was freaking thrilled and so very overwhelming happy to be alive. But there were also some things that were so unnatural looking that they left you feeling cold. How calm and at peace Will had looked was one of them. Dean wasn't going to pretend to understand it, any of it. But he got enough to know Will felt something for the bastard. But he hadn't shown an inch of hesitation. Just jammed that knife right up in there.

Dean hadn't stuck around to see what would happen after that.

Or rather, he hadn't let Sammy stick around for it, and instead insisted his brother help drag him the fuck out of there.

Moving hurt right now. A lot.

It was distracting enough that neither of them noticed that Sam was able to walk right out of the front door with no problems until after he'd done it. Apparently whatever Lecter had been doing to trap him there couldn't hold up to getting stabbed. Dean filed that under 'thank fuck' and moved on to more pressing things. Like how far could they get and how fast.

Sam though, he paused at the bottom of the stairs. "Is Mr. Will going to be okay?" he asked.

Dean gritted his teeth. He wasn't surprised Sammy would ask. Hell, he couldn't even manage to get irritated about it. But right now, breathing in deep meant fully expanding his chest which made all kinds of things hurt. "Will's – " and shit, but he didn't know what the fuck Will was any more. He'd saved them, Dean got that. But the last time Dean had seen him, he was also hugging the fucking witch like he planned on never letting go. It was all way outside of Dean's ability to cope. "Will – would want us – to take care of – our own shit. Come on," he gasped.

Instinct had him wanting to make their way down the driveway and for the street as fast as their legs could carry them.

Common fuckin' sense said steal the car.

And Will, bless him, left the doors unlocked. No keys, unfortunately, and like hell was Dean sending Sam back into that house for them, but Dean had hotwired more than one car in his day. Twisting around to do it _hurt_ but if he couldn't have a gun, he'd settle for a car.

And still, no one came out of the house.

Dean wasn't stupid. He knew there was a very good possibility there were two more dead bodies in there. But he didn't know if that made him feel relieved or furious so he just ignored it. Later. There'd be time to deal with that later. After they found Dad. After they got someplace safe, some place that was _really_ safe. After he was sure Sam was going to be okay. And maybe even make sure nothing of his was broken or bruised beyond repair.

Then he could deal with this shit. Right now, he just had to focus on getting the car down the road and getting his family back together.

The monsters were still out there. And they weren't going away. The only thing Dean could do was make sure his family was safe.

It was his job to protect Sammy, afterall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading and for the great comments and encouragement and feedback. As always, special thanks to Black-Haired Girl for being my sounding board and expert medical advice on how much you can stab a man and still have him able to talk.
> 
> I've toyed with the idea of a sequel to this, but honestly, it probably won't happen for a long time. Anyone who knows me knows I take forever to get something done. Having said that, my NanoWrimo goal for this year is to finish Connections.
> 
> Thanks for the company and I hope you enjoyed!


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